Moments In Elysium
by poetzproblem
Summary: A short series of vignettes taken from the timeline of 'Too Long In Winter.' EC of course.
1. And Now, We Go To Supper

**Author's Note: **This little vignette was scraped off the editing room floor, so to speak, of _Too Long In Winter_. It's just a short, light hearted piece, and I wanted to post it as another 'thank you' to everyone who followed my story.

**Disclaimer: **I do not own the characters, I just borrow them to play with…entirely without profit.

**

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And Now, We Go To Supper **

The sky over Paris was growing decidedly gray as twilight crept upon the horizon, banishing what had been a near perfect September day into oblivion. A brougham rumbled across the cobblestone streets of the Faubourg Saint-Honoré, ever closer to the little cottage owned by the good Madame Giry. Three people sat within the box cab in quiet conversation, that was, until the wheels bounced rather forcibly over yet another rough patch of road.

The top of a cane rapped sharply against the roof just behind where the driver sat. "Blast it, man! Are you aiming for every crevice in the street?" Erik thumped his cane down on the floor with a scowl.

"Erik, he can hardly be held accountable for the state of the pavement," admonished Christine from her seat beside him, an exasperated look upon her lovely face.

"He should be more diligent," Erik insisted, nervously rolling his cane between his hands as he studiously gazed at his wife's flushed cheeks. "All of this jostling about cannot be good for your condition, mon ange."

One elegant brow arched. "You make it sound as though I have some horrible illness," she grumbled. "I am in perfect health."

"We must think of the child, Christine."

His placating tone only served to rile her even further. "As if I am not thinking of him! Really, Erik," she rolled her eyes, "I swear that you are determined to drive me mad with all of your overprotective fussing."

"I do not fuss," he muttered with a furrowed brow.

Christine smiled complacently, "Fretting, then."

"Must I separate the two of you?"

Erik turned his attention to the third occupant of the coach. "Daroga, have I ever fussed?"

"Constantly," Nadir Kahn admitted.

Erik opened his mouth to administer a scathing retort, but just as he began to speak, the brougham shimmied roughly once again. He lifted his cane with a growl, ready to rap it against the ceiling, but Christine grabbed his wrist with her delicate hand and jerked it back. "Enough, Erik."

He huffed, "I am only thinking of you, my dear."

"God, grant me patience," Christine mumbled under her breath with some amusement. She had only recently told Erik of his impending fatherhood, and he was already proving to be horribly overprotective of her. While she secretly found it rather endearing, she could scarcely imagine how he would coddle her in the coming months.

"Madame Giry is very kind to include me in her invitation to supper," Nadir said in an attempt to change the subject. Erik merely grunted in response, and Christine smiled. Madame Giry had extended the invitation two days before, no doubt wishing to learn the details of Erik's meeting with his newly discovered aunt, the Baroness d'Amboise.

"She could hardly exclude you, Nadir, after all that you have done," Christine said, moving her hand to rest over Erik's in case he should feel inspired to hassle the coachman again.

Nadir nodded at the compliment, offering his warmest smile. "You are too kind, little one."

"Please, Daroga, you are making me ill with all of this saccharine."

The Persian chuckled, "You are merely envious of my superior charm and conversational skills."

Erik snorted. "Hardly, old man."

Christine could not help but laugh at their good natured bickering. "Perhaps it is the two of _you_ that should be separated."

"Christine, my dear," Erik intoned dryly, "if you can discover a way to finally remove this insufferable Persian from my life, then I shall gladly become your slave for all of eternity."

"Are you not already," she murmured silkily.

Nadir laughed heartily at that, and Erik managed to glare convincingly before his lips quirked up at the corners. After a few more minutes of, thankfully, smooth travel, the trio arrived at their destination, and Antoinette Giry welcomed them warmly.

"Bon jour, Erik…Christine," she smiled kindly, and then arched a brow at Nadir. "Monsieur Kahn, I am glad that you could come as well."

"Madame Giry, I am very glad to see you again," Nadir smoothly greeted the woman, "and under far happier circumstances than when last we met."

"Oui, Monsieur," she responded coolly, "although I should admonish you for failing to keep our friend supplied with ink and paper with which to write."

Christine was amazed to see Nadir's dusky skin grow ruddy under Antoinette Giry's reproachful gaze. "Forgive me, Madame," he muttered.

"You will see that it does not happen again," the woman commanded, only the slight twinkle in her eyes betrayed her good humor.

"Of course, Madame," Nadir dutifully replied. Erik made the miscalculation of snickering at the exchange, and the Persian slanted him a dark look before his smile transformed into a decidedly wicked grin. "After all…our lovebirds will have much to share with you in the coming months."

"Daroga," Erik growled in warning.

"Foolish men," Antoinette muttered under her breath. She smiled softly and reached out to brush away a stray curl of the younger woman's hair. "Always fighting for the last word when silence speaks so much more eloquently." Her gaze fell meaningfully to Christine's middle. "When is the child due?"

Christine felt her cheeks flush at the candid inquiry. Her former ballet mistress had not been the first to correctly guess that she carried Erik's child within her; that honor had fallen to the Baroness d'Amboise, and Christine was left to wonder if her condition had truly been so obvious. "You knew?"

"_You_ knew?" Erik's incredulous voice rang through the room, but he was ignored by the ladies.

"I suspected when first I saw you again," Antoinette whispered with eyes glistening, "but now, I know."

Erik threw out his hands in annoyance, huffing, "Am I the only one who did not know?"

"I did not," Nadir said with a shrug.

Antoinette rolled her eyes at the men's banter and enveloped Christine in a warm embrace, placing a kiss to her cheek. "You will make a wonderful mother, my child."

"Oh, Madame," Christine rasped, once again overcome with emotion, "thank you."

While the two women cried their happy tears, Nadir elbowed Erik, who turned to the Persian with a perplexed look upon his masked face. "May _Allah_ bless you with a son, my friend, else I fear that we shall be sadly outnumbered."

"All the better to keep you both upon the path of righteousness , Monsieur Kahn," Antoinette said as she straightened and composed herself once again. She turned to Erik with a smile and cupped his unmasked cheek affectionately. "I think that fatherhood will suit you as well as marriage has, Erik. I have faith in you."

He swallowed heavily and nodded. "Thank you, Antoinette." His eyes met Christine's, and she could see the quiet joy that Madame Giry's words brought to him. The woman had, in many ways, been the closest thing to family that either Erik or Christine had known for so many years.

"Let us sit for awhile in the salon before supper," Antoinette suggested. "Meg has yet to return home from her rehearsal," the woman shook her head, grumbling, "She has been spending far too much time at the theater."

"She clearly takes after her mother," Erik said

Antoinette slanted him an amused look. "I'll not deny it. I am very proud of my daughter. Both of them, really," she added with another smile to Christine, who promptly burst into tears once again.

Erik hesitated, looking at his wife worriedly. "Christine?"

"Do not mind me, my love," she waived off his concern, feeling utterly foolish for her unruly emotions, "I find that I am lately weeping over the smallest things."

"It is perfectly natural, child," Antoinette soothed, linking her arm with Christine's and leading her toward the salon.

Nadir gave his bewildered friend a pat on the back, whispering conspiratorially, "Sons, my friend. They are far easier to comprehend."

"I can hear you, M'sieur Kahn," Antoinette called back.

Nadir's bushy brows arched high upon his forehead. "That woman would have made an excellent spy."

Erik chuckled at that. "She honed her skills in the ballet dormitories, Daroga. There is little that escapes her notice."

The Persian grinned. "Ah yes, I think that she and I shall have much to discuss indeed." With that, Nadir set off toward the salon with a distinct bounce to his step, and Erik merely sighed.

It was going to be a very long evening.

****


	2. Box Five

**Author's Note: **This vignette is rated **M** and is slightly stronger than my usual fare.

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**Box Five**

"How can it be that I grew up in this theater and failed to ever enter the infamous Box Five?"

Erik chuckled at his wife's endearing expression of wonderment as she stared down upon the newly refurbished stage of the Opera Populáire from the unqualified best view in the house. Wrapping his arms around her from behind, he bent down to nuzzle her cheek, whispering, "Because, unlike your inquisitive friend, Little Giry, you knew to stay away from the Ghost's Box, else suffer his wrath."

Christine giggled, leaning back against her husband's broad chest and lacing her fingers through his where they rested against her middle. "Had I known what I was missing, I would have been in this box every day."

"You made far more productive use of your time, I think."

He held her for long moments, both of them staring out across the empty stage in silent contemplation. The opera house had been renovated after the fire, and had reopened to a grand fanfare earlier in the year, but all was quiet on that afternoon…the theater deserted. Erik had felt a compulsion to return to the building that had been his home for so many years, and Christine had stubbornly refused to allow him this visit alone. After all, it had been her home as well, and she had been just as determined to see it once again, free of the turmoil that had surrounded them both upon that final evening beneath the fifth cellar. Arguing with her had proved futile, and Erik had eventually surrendered to her will.

Together they had snuck in through the Rue Scribe entrance, for Erik was certainly not foolish enough to simply walk through the grand doors of the lobby with Christine upon his arm, even with his aunt's guarantees that he would be protected in Paris. He had led his wife with great care through the passages to Box Five, uncertain how many of his trapdoors and escape routes had been discovered during the renovations. Attempting to traverse the lower levels of the opera had been out of the question, for he would not place Christine at any risk above that which she had willfully disregarded with her demand to accompany him to his destination. Thankfully, they had encountered no difficulties en route.

Looking over the theater, he could not deny that the reparations were superb. The stage had been enlarged slightly, the boxes refurbished, the baroque carvings replaced with more tasteful décor, and the new chandelier was tolerable. He might actually compliment the architect, were he actually inclined to reestablish his interest in the Populáire.

"Do you miss this opera house, Erik?"

Her soft inquiry shook him from his thoughts, and he answered without hesitation. "No, I do not. But for you, my time here was filled with only misery."

"I miss it sometimes," she admitted quietly. "Before you returned to me, there were nights when I would lay awake in my bed and imagine that I was back here in the dormitories, and that at any moment I would hear my angel's voice singing to me."

"Oh, Christine."

She turned easily in his embrace, looping her arms around his neck. "I imagined that you would take me through the mirror again, and when you did, I would not faint away at the discovery of your dreams for our future, nor betray your trust with my impossible curiosity. Instead, I would take you into my arms and tell you how proud I was that you had chosen me, and then you would lead me to that beautiful bed, with its silken sheets, and lay me across it…"

Unable to resist her verbal seduction, he dipped his head to capture her lips, effectively bringing her words to a halt. She moaned softly against his mouth, and he gently nipped at her lower lip before drawing away. "Such a wicked imagination, mon ange," he murmured.

Her eyes sparkled with mischief, and her tempting mouth drew up into a mysterious grin. "Do you think that the bed is still down there, Erik?"

He chuckled, shaking his head slightly at her playful inquiry. "It would be miracle if it were, and no, we will not be going anywhere near the underground lake. That place holds nothing but painful memories for us both," and the slight curve of Christine's burgeoning belly pressed against his was a vivid reminder that she was certainly in no condition to go traipsing through the cold cellars. He had truly been mad to have ever imagined keeping her down in that dark dungeon as his wife.

"Are there happier memories in Box Five?"

Erik tightened his arms around her waist and pulled her closer. "Happier by the moment, my dear," and he bent to kiss her again, relishing the way her curves molded to his own angular form. She parted her lips without hesitation, pulling him headlong into mindless passion as she threaded her fingers into his hair and shifted enticingly against his body. A ragged groan escaped him, and he wrenched away from her. "Christine, this is entirely improper."

A breathless little laugh passed her lips, and she whispered, "When have you ever cared for propriety?"

He stared at her, hardly daring to think that she could be suggesting that they…_here_…in Box Five! He swallowed heavily, then grinned at his wife, attempting a teasing tone. "You cannot mean to have your way with me here?"

Christine gave a gentle, but persistent little shove to his chest, forcing him to step back into the shadows of the box. "If I cannot have my Phantom in his swan bed, then I think that I shall have him in Box Five."

Erik's brows shot up. "I think that you might be serious."

Her smile grew sinful, dark eyes glittering with wanton desire. "Oh, Erik, I am," she promised, just before she tugged his head down to hers and kissed him with unrestrained ardor.

Erik stood unmoving against Christine's delightful attack as his mind struggled to process the situation. His beautiful, sweet, _innocent _wife…the mother of his unborn child…was seducing him in a very public place. True that the Opera Populáire would be dark for the next several days, and he _had_ locked the door to Box Five, and they _were_ currently alone in the auditorium. Well…what the devil was he waiting for?

On a growl, he spun Christine around and pressed her back against the nearby wall. She gave a tiny squeak, and then smiled into their kiss. One agile dancer's leg hooked around the back of his thigh, bringing her femininity into full contact with his growing arousal, and he groaned again. The woman would surely be the death of him. His hand roamed down to the folds of her skirt and began to slowly bunch the fabric… lifting, maneuvering, seeking access to the soft flesh beneath.

_This is absolute madness. _

Christine's naughty little hands embarked upon their own journey. The left traveled upward, fingertips seeking the edge of his mask and parting the sweat soaked leather from his skin. The ruby adorning her finger winked up at him as she peeled away the offending barrier. Christine sighed in approval and rewarded him for his submission by teasing his upper lip with her tongue before delving into his mouth for another searing kiss.

While her left hand completed its familiar mission, her right traveled downward, trailing over his collar to skim his waistcoat and dance precariously along the waistline of his trousers.

_Sanity is highly overrated…_

The sensations that his little diva caused with her curious touch nearly overwhelmed him. He fought against the urge to drag her to the floor and ravish her, although Christine did not seem of a mind to protest such an action. Indeed, she moved against him with such urgency that he felt certain she meant to encourage him in this dangerous game.

He tore his lips from hers with great difficulty. "We are precariously close to the point of no return, Christine."

She gazed up at him with flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes, her generous bosom threatening to spill from her bodice with every laborious indrawn breath. Her lips curved into that inviting smile that he could never resist, and he knew that he was lost even before she spoke. "We are long past it, my love."

Her industrious fingers found their way beneath layers of fabric, brushing over the undeniable evidence of her effect upon him, and Erik hissed, "Chriss- teene…"

All protest to their reckless endeavor ceased with her bold actions, and he feasted upon her lips even as his body ground helplessly against her touch. His own hand roamed beneath her skirt, urging her leg higher across his hip until his own muscled thigh was pressed against the very heart of her desire. She moaned thickly at the increased friction, tipping her head back against the wall and arching her back in a most inviting way. Erik greedily turned his attention to his wife's exposed décolletage, trailing his tongue along the curve of her breasts.

Christine gasped, her control quickly slipping away as her husband expertly turned her own seduction against her. His talented fingers expertly rearranged any piece of material that impeded his delight in her heated flesh. Lost in a haze of sensation, she sought to pull him ever closer in an attempt to increase the pleasure that he bestowed upon her. Erik became acutely aware of how very easy it would be to raise his wife from the floor and sink into her waiting warmth, right there against the wall with her skirts bunched between them and her legs wrapped around his waist…

_No, not like this._

A low growl rumbled from deep within his chest, and he attempted to pry himself away from the enticing bounty of Christine's ripe body. She moaned in disappointment at the loss of him, though one leg remained firmly locked behind his thigh, impeding him from withdrawing completely. Trapped by her unrelenting ardor, Erik allowed his earlier impulses to take precedence, lifting her securely into his arms and silently rejoicing when she so trustingly entwined her limbs around him. He could have pressed forward, but instead he carefully stepped back until his calf brushed the velvet seat.

By unspoken command, Christine allowed herself to slide sensuously down Erik's body, extracting a ragged hiss for her effort. The impish grin upon her lovely face should have warned him that his tenuous control over their mutual pleasure was at an end. With a little push, she had him seated before her. He did not even have moment to protest, not that he would have, before she lifted her skirts and straddled his lap. Her grin soon faded, however, as their rekindled passions urged them into motion once again.

Mask still clutched in her left hand, she looped her arm around his shoulder, buried her right hand into his hair and captured his lips in a fevered kiss, even as her body captured his in the sweetest of traps. Overwhelmed by her boldness, Erik could do nothing but grasp her hips in a fruitless attempt to direct the rhythm of their loving, but Christine would not be deterred from her headlong race to completion. She moved over him with utter abandon, striving to deepen their connection, and Erik blissfully watched her rapture build…her eyes fell closed, her cheeks flushed pink, her mouth open and emitting the most delightful noises.

He might have been surprised by the sounds that she managed to draw forth from him had he been fully aware of his own voice joining together with hers in their song of ecstasy. Those few souls that had not abandoned the opera house on that afternoon would whisper with sly grins for months to come of the _ghosts_ in Box Five.

The liaison was inelegant, but no less satisfying for the lack of grace in their hasty coupling. Indeed, they rode out the maelstrom that they had created together upon intense waves of pleasure before finally tumbling into breathless release. When the last tremors of fulfillment had finally ebbed, Christine wilted limply against her husband, her head falling onto his shoulder as he cradled her protectively until her fluttering pulse could slowly return to its normal tempo . A lazy smile curved her lips, and Erik could feel its formation against his throat, just as he felt the vibrations of her teasing whisper.

"The best seat in the house, indeed."


	3. A Little Illumination

**A Little Illumination**

He watched them with a certain morose fascination from the second story window of the townhouse. Whatever else he might think of them, individually and together, he could not deny that there was a strange beauty in the dichotomy of the pair. The man was immaculately attired in formal black, an air of dark danger swirled around him like a cloak, enhanced by the agitated way in which he paced the small terrace. The woman stood serenely still in the midst of his erratic motion, dressed in a modest white blouse and skirt of pale peach, looking for all the world like an angel.

An angel in the midst of a demon's rage.

Raoul de Chagny sighed, his hand tightening reflexively around a glass of brandy as he wondered again how he had come to be here, staring down upon his Little Lotte whilst she weathered her _husband's_ fit of temper.

_Ah yes, our dear aunt's idea of a family gathering, and our sister's less than welcoming response._

Raoul had known from the very start that this meeting between his haughty sister, Élise de Chagny Durand, and their recently discovered, unpredictable brother, Erik Villon, had been ill advised, but none of the siblings were given leave to refuse the summons issued by the Baroness d'Amboise. He had nearly ignored her request for his presence, having already suffered through one uncomfortable reunion with the new Comte de Chagny, but in the end, he had not been able to resist seeing Christine again. Their last several encounters had been tarnished with angry words and accusations, and he longed for just one more chance to regain her good opinion.

_Perhaps I am becoming a masochist, _he mused

The afternoon had certainly been painful enough for all of them. Raoul had been the first to arrive at the townhouse, thinking to secure a defensive position posthaste so that he would not be taken by surprise. Erik had not been pleased to see him, and less pleased that Christine had offered him the tiniest of smiles. For his part, Raoul had not had any illusions that such a token had been gifted with anything more than appreciation. He had been resolutely polite in his greeting, after all.

Élise had been the one to set the unfortunate tone of the afternoon by staring blatantly at Erik's mask. _"I suppose that there is a certain resemblance, although it is difficult to tell with only half of the image," _she had said, and even Raoul had cringed at his sister's thoughtless words. He was rather impressed that Erik had managed to keep his temper in check for as long as he had, no doubt for Christine's sake.

Élise had barely spared a glance at the woman from whose clutches she felt certain that her baby brother had been lucky to escape. Her elder brother, apparently, had not warranted such concern. A cold, tight little smile had accompanied an indifferent greeting directed at her sister-in-law. _"Christine, my dear, it has been quite some time since last we met. You are certainly looking very…healthy." _

Christine had gone scarlet, and her delicate hands had fisted tightly at her sides. Erik's face had been set in a dark scowl that Raoul well remembered from their few encounters, and he had briefly wondered which of the two that his sister should most fear. He had also had the strange experience of wishing to defend the couple, but the Baroness had quickly and tactfully intervened. _"Undoubtedly the mark of a happy marriage. Do you not agree, __É__lise? How is your husband?"_

The stilted conversation that had followed had been no less uncomfortable, and Raoul had participated very little, instead focusing much of his attention upon Christine. His aunt's words…_a happy marriage_… had been echoing inside his mind, and he had found himself studying his former fiancée in an attempt to measure her happiness, a daunting task in light of the tension that had filled the salon.

Yet Christine's hand had repeatedly sought out her husband's as they had sat beside one another on the settee, bestowing comforting touches and caresses when he had seemed most to need them. Erik would close his eyes and sigh inaudibly at such a simple gesture, and Raoul had been forced to look away. Had his brother truly never been shown any such affection before Christine?

Élise had taken her leave before an hour had passed, and Erik had ignored the Baroness's apologies, storming out to the terrace for air, or so he had claimed. Raoul had not been fooled. He had clearly seen the murderous rage that had been dancing behind his brother's eyes for the better part of the visit, and he felt a familiar urge to seize Christine by the hand and drag her far away to some place safe. She, of course, had made an immediate move to follow after her husband.

"_Wait, Christine. Let him go," _the Vicomte had pleaded, a restraining hand automatically grasping her forearm.

"_Please remove your hand, Raoul," _she had demanded, and he had done so without hesitation. That had been nearly fifteen minutes ago, and they were both still outside…Erik pacing, and Christine waiting patiently for him to calm down.

_Absolute madness_, he thought, taking another drink of his brandy. _What can she see in him? His temper is as unpredictable as it has ever been. _

"You must let her go, Raoul."

He glanced over his shoulder at the sound of his aunt's honeyed voice, her eyes filled with compassion. Sighing, he turned back to the window. "I have, Aunt Anne-Marie."

"In your mind perhaps, but what of your heart?"

Raoul shook his head, eyes still fixed upon the couple below. "You need not worry, Aunt. My heart no longer rules my actions, and if one small piece of it shall always be missing, then I assure you that the remainder functions perfectly well."

The Baroness smiled wanly and laid a sympathetic hand upon his shoulder, pausing to briefly glance out the window. "I only wish for you to be happy."

He sighed again, "I know, Aunt," and he managed to bestow upon her one of his more charming grins. "If only I could find a woman like you, but alas, you are truly a unique specimen of feminine beauty."

"Insolent boy," she muttered with a trace of laughter in her voice.

She left him alone at the window once again, and his attention returned to the couple outside just as Erik finally stopped his pacing and came to rest before Christine. Raoul watched as she reached out to her husband, cupping her palm against his cheek and offering the softest of smiles. All of Erik's tension seemed to melt away with that single touch, and he tucked a stray curl behind his wife's ear.

The tender scene suddenly seemed too intimate for Raoul to bear, but he could not seem to look away. He watched as Erik leaned closer, saying something to Christine that made her smile bloom even brighter as he gently brushed the back of his fingers over her stomach. Her hand came to rest low on her abdomen, and if that age old gesture had not been clear enough in its meaning, then Erik's hand briefly pressing over hers was unmistakable.

The glass of brandy slipped from Raoul's slack fingers, exploding into countless shards of glass and spilling the amber liquid across his aunt's floor.

"Raoul," she barked, "whatever is the matter with you?"

He said nothing, only continued to stare in dawning realization at the pair outside.

_No, the trio…_

The truth of the revelation was an unexpected, agonizing weight upon Raoul's soul, and he was forced to admit that everything that he had ever wished for now belonged indisputably to his brother. His heart suddenly seemed to be very much in need of that missing piece, for the remainder had just been irrevocably shattered.

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**A/N:** Another Raoul pov...but E/C centric. 

Thanks to Imjustheretoread for inspiring me to write an 'Uncle' Raoul reaction piece.


	4. A Full House

**A Full House**

The invasion had begun just before the winter solstice with the arrival of Madame Giry and her daughter. Christine had been nearing the last months of her confinement and had been growing increasingly anxious for any diversion beyond those which Erik could provide. So it had been with great joy, and no small amount of relief, that Antoinette and Meg had been welcomed into the Villa della Rosa.

That had been more than three weeks ago…three long, torturous weeks of merry making, celebrating, and general holiday cheer. Such familial company was difficult enough for a solitary creature such as Erik to bear, but added to the spirited seasonal commotion was the shocking transformation of his home, his private domain, into a surprisingly accurate replica of the ballet dormitories at the Opera Populáire. Not one crevice of the house remained available to him as a sanctuary from the incessant giggling and gossiping of his wife and Little Giry. Really, one would think that the two were sixteen again! Antoinette was doing her best to manage their exuberant energies, but the task was proving to be impossible.

Nadir, that traitorous Persian, had disappeared almost as soon as the ladies had arrived, claiming a need to administer to some of his neglected business interests and promising to return in time for the blessed event. Erik had not been fooled for a moment. He had been abandoned to drown in a house full of women!

Granted, the Yule time festivities had been somewhat enjoyable, for he had never before had a cause to observe the occasion. Christine had fussed and worried over every detail in her attempt to make their first Christmas together memorable. Erik might even confess to experiencing some warm feelings as he sat by the fire surrounded by his family…but the warmth had begun to grow decidedly uncomfortable as the weeks wore on.

Presently, he was hiding…no, _working_…in his office behind a locked door. The breakfast conversation had revolved around the child, as did everything in his life of late, and he had desperately needed peace and quiet and _escape_. After all, there was only so much talk of baby things and the benefits and drawbacks of wet nurses, he shuddered at the thought, that a man could endure.

The disruptive chiming of the front bell intruded into his blissful solitude. With his luck, it was probably that young woman from _La Fenice_…Josette, he thought was her name…coming to call upon Christine again. Yet another visitor he would be required to endure without comment all to please his wife. A second chime pierced the air, and Erik sighed audibly.

_Damn Nadir…he just had to take Darius with him on his excursion, and now I am left with incompetent servants. _

At the third impatient ring, Erik stood swiftly, sending his chair scraping carelessly across the floor. Striding to the door, he wrenched the knob and started down the hallway toward the foyer where he was stopped short by the audible admittance of his newest guest.

"I trust that you will inform my nephew that his aunt has arrived a bit more quickly than you managed to answer the bell."

Erik cringed at the unmistakable voice of the Baroness d'Amboise. He was suddenly overcome with the urge to retreat back into his office, but he knew that would not deter his aunt. Drawing in a deep breath, he squared his shoulders and marched forward to greet the next wave of the invasion.

"Madame," he said as he approached the Baroness, "you are early."

She turned with an amused smile, and nodded slightly. "I saw no reason to delay my visit another two weeks. You need not worry about accommodating me. I have taken the liberty of securing a room at the Londra Palace. I simply will not risk missing the birth of my first great nephew."

"Niece," Erik corrected, having long since grown weary of everyone's assumption that Christine would bear a son.

His aunt raised a skeptical brow. "I suppose that a girl child will be acceptable…for now." She ignored Erik's sudden pallor at the suggestion that he might be forced to suffer through another pregnancy. "How is Christine faring?"

_She is uncomfortable, impatient, and temperamental_, he thought.

"She is well."

"I am very glad to hear it," the Baroness replied. "You will inform her of my arrival."

Erik bristled at the command, and belligerently said, "She is presently resting."

"Actually, she is not," Christine called from the stairs.

Erik whirled around abruptly to the vision of his very pregnant wife struggling down the last two steps, Meg Giry on one side and Antoinette on the other. In a flash of blind panic, he nearly tripped over his own feet in his haste to reach her. "Christine! Did I not instruct that you were to remain upstairs until I could escort you down for supper?" He glared first at Meg, and then Antoinette, "And the both of you were to be making certain that she does not overtax herself."

"Erik, really," Christine muttered in annoyance, "I am not a child!"

"No," he shot back, "but you are carrying one."

"Am I? I hadn't noticed," she intoned dryly while making a show of looking down at her swollen belly.

"I am not amused, my dear."

"You never are anymore," she complained, her dark eyes twinkling with humor.

"Erik," Antoinette interrupted, "I can assure you that Christine has done nothing overly strenuous."

"The stairs," he blustered.

That one accusatory eyebrow lifted. "Are you suggesting that Meg and I are not to be trusted with your wife's well-being?" Erik colored slightly, knowing very well that he would never win such an argument with Antoinette.

"I am certain that my nephew meant to imply no such thing," the Baroness said with a smile. "Is that not correct, Erik?"

_My own aunt taking up arms against me? Such treason certainly did not take long to occur._

"Of course," he mumbled with downcast gaze. The warm touch of gentle fingers brushed over his clenched fist, and his eyes came up to see Christine's soft smile. Such a simple thing, really, but it never failed to soothe him, a fact of which she was undoubtedly well aware. The last weeks had required a tremendous effort to remain a gracious host in the presence of the Girys, and now he would be forced to consider his aunt as well. He was becoming slightly nostalgic for the time when he had no one to answer to but himself, but a glance down to his wife's rounded form was a vivid reminder that those days were gone forever.

"Christine, my dear, you look absolutely radiant," the Baroness complimented smoothly.

Christine grinned at the older woman. "You lie superbly."

"Nonsense. A woman is never more beautiful than when she is with child." Erik silently agreed. His wife had grumbled occasionally about her increasing girth, but to him, she had never been lovelier…a rose in full bloom.

Meg giggled softly, and the Baroness turned to her with a slight frown, causing Meg to immediately sober. The older woman smiled in satisfaction and directed her attention to Antoinette. "Madame Giry, I am pleased to meet you again. I assume that this lovely young woman is your daughter. Marguerite, is it not?"

"Oui, Madame."

Meg frowned slightly and shot a questioning look to her mother. She _hated_ being addressed by her given name, and was obviously not happy that her mother would allow the Baroness to use it, but she was wise enough to hold her tongue.

"I had the privilege of seeing you dance in the recent production of _Giselle._ You are quite talented, my dear."

Meg blushed. "Thank you, Madame."

Erik had been aware that the Baroness had called upon Antoinette in Paris. She had been determined to meet the woman who had provided her nephew shelter in his youth, but to his utter exasperation, neither lady would reveal to him exactly what they had discussed. He had a feeling that the next few weeks would prove even more frustrating for him.

"Christine," he finally said, tucking her arm into his, "you really must sit down. Why don't we adjourn this _lovely_ reunion to the parlor?"

The ladies all wholeheartedly agreed. His wife, however, eyed him warningly, whispering under her breath, "Behave yourself, Erik."

Grinning slightly, he lifted her hand to his lips. "Always, mon ange."

xx

Close to three hours later, the Baroness had finally departed for her hotel, the Girys had retired to their rooms, Christine had been safely tucked into bed, and Erik sat blessedly, silently, alone on a chair in the master suite. _Three hours! _Only women could move from subject to subject and back around again in a seemingly endless conversation.

His aunt had wished to hear every detail of Christine's health, her attending doctor's credentials, (as if Erik would allow anyone he deemed unworthy to so much as touch his wife) and the plans that she had made for the days immediately following the birth of the child.

He had not been capable of sitting though all of the discussion, but had excused himself after the first hour to seek a few moments of solitude. Of course, he had been drawn back in an attempt to discover the cause of the laughter that had repeatedly drifted through the villa.

And soon there would be the angry wails of a baby.

_Dear, God, what have I gotten myself into? This house will never be empty again!_

"Erik, are you coming to bed?"

Christine's sleep laden voice interrupted the stillness, and he sighed, "Yes, my dear."

It took him only a few moments to shed his clothing and gingerly slip onto the mattress beside his wife. Closing his eyes, he drew in a deep breath and released it slowly, willing the tension in his body to uncoil. Christine shifted beside him, curling her body into his. "It will not be much longer, my love."

His palm unerringly found the firm mound of her belly and pressed softly, feeling the life dancing within. Christine had complained more than once that their child had seemingly inherited her father's preference for the nighttime, and his smile could not be suppressed at the nocturnal antics of their little one.

"I am beginning to think that we should have stayed in Paris," he grumbled. "We might actually have managed some privacy on occasion."

"We are quite alone now," she laughed, moving her hand over his, "well, as alone as we can be with this one between us."

"Such a tiny thing to cause such enormous changes," he murmured.

"Just wait until she is on the outside," Christine whispered.

"We shall never be alone again," he complained. As if to reiterate the point, the child gave another swift kick from within her mother's womb.

"And you will adore every loud, chaotic moment."

A sarcastic retort begged to be spoken, but Erik only gathered Christine closer and released a tired sigh. "As long as you are beside me, mon ange, I believe that I can endure the chaos."

He felt her smile widen against his shoulder. "I am glad to hear that, because Sophia is planning to visit next week."

"Christine…please tell me that you are jesting."

"The letter arrived this morning."

A long moment of silence passed while Erik processed the news of yet another intruder into his domain. "I am suddenly missing my house beneath the opera. It was far less welcoming."

Christine's laughter was the only response that he received, and he was forced to admit defeat. His house, it seemed, had been seized, his power overthrown, and there was no other course left to him but surrender. When her mirth finally faded, she pressed a kiss to his cheek and settled trustingly into his embrace while the comforting ripples of their child tickled against his side.

Surrender had never been so sweet.

* * *

**A/N:** This one didn't go exactly where I thought it would. It just did not want to cooperate with me...and one of us had to surrender. 

Feedback is appreciated.


	5. What I Love Best

**What I Love Best **

He is beautiful.

I rarely say the words aloud, of course, for each time I do, Erik only scoffs at me. Oh, I can see all of his flaws as well as he can, and I cannot deny that I was horrified the first time I saw his unmasked face. I was a spoiled child then, and fully expecting an angel. My first glimpse of him in the mirror had stolen my breath, for I had never seen a man more exquisite in form. Truly, I thought that the mask must have been meant to protect my mortal eyes from such a heavenly vision.

In one selfish, unthinking moment, I shattered his carefully crafted illusion, driven by curiosity and the arrogant belief that I had somehow earned the right to finally see…to _touch_…my beloved angel. I barely even had time to recognize the twisted flesh that had marked his life with such pain before his wicked temper gave me real cause to be frightened. We have long since forgiven one another for our wretched beginning.

Erik will never fully understand how dearly I now love his sunken cheek and misshapen brow. He still sees himself as a beast undeserving of my affections, but I know that I am the unworthy one. Deep down in my most secret, selfish, and guilt laden thoughts, I am grateful for his face, for I know that had he been handsome, he would never have been mine.

To admit such a thing, even to myself, makes me feel as though I am somehow betraying him. If I could, I would take every ounce of his torment upon myself. I gently caress my fingertips over his perfect cheek as he sleeps peacefully beside me in the warm glow of morning, wondering in the knowledge that he belongs only to me. His breath catches slightly, and he sighs, but does not awaken. I smile softly and imagine that he is dreaming of me. I am the only woman who will ever touch him this way, the only one who will know the texture of skin and sinew hidden beneath his formal dress, and the only one who will feel the controlled power he conceals in such grace of motion.

The only woman who will ever see his scars.

I am very well acquainted with each and every mark upon his body, and I am certainly not ashamed to admit that some of the most pleasurable moments of my life have been spent exploring those raised, callous lines of damaged flesh with my fingers and lips. I have learned the taste of his pain, but I cannot erase it, nor can I even begin to imagine the suffering that he has endured.

In our earliest days together, the sight of his poor, abused body would never fail to inspire my tears, although I struggled to keep them from his sight for fear that he would mistake empathy for pity, or worse, disgust. In truth, I wept for my own loss of faith in a human race that could pile such cruelty upon its fellow man…a man with a heart and mind and soul. Such a beautiful soul. Did I really ever think it distorted? Foolish child…I could not see that it had merely collapsed beneath the weight of the world's disdain.

Erik has survived when lesser men would have fallen, though I suppose, in a way, he did fall. He tells me that my love saved him, but he is wrong. My love was a weak and brittle thing when he needed it to be strong. No, it was the knowledge that he could be loved…_deserved_ to be loved…that saved him. That was my gift to him in the dark cavern beneath the opera house. His gift to me was freedom, and in that freedom, I found the strength to follow my heart.

We are both free now…free from the past, from the loneliness, the pain, and guilt. We are free to love one another as we were always meant to. I believe that Erik is…has always been…my destiny. And I am his. The fantasies that my father wrapped around me as a child were not so impossible after all. I _have been_ visited by the Angel of Music, and he has protected me and nurtured me just as my father promised.

I wonder on occasion what might have been if only Erik had told me the truth from the very beginning. I like to believe that I would have welcomed him with open arms, and that everyone who was caught in the midst of our tumultuous love affair would have been spared the pain that we inflicted upon them.

_If only…_

Those words once dominated my thoughts, but I've little need of them now. I have Erik. I have his love, and I'll soon have his child. There are still moments when I fear that this is all some elaborate dream, and that I will wake to discover that, in fact, my angel never returned to me. That my life in Venice has been a product of my fevered mind, and that I am still at the Chateau de Chagny…still engaged to be married to Raoul.

The babe in my womb kicks me soundly in protest, and I cannot help but laugh at her antics. Already so like her papa. Erik insists that I am carrying his daughter, and I have stopped arguing the point. He has been so stubbornly resistant to the idea of a son that I have grown more than a little worried over his reaction if I should fail to deliver him the daughter that he expects.

Erik never wanted to be a father. I sometimes suspect that he believed his deformity had somehow rendered his seed incapable of finding fruition. Or perhaps he had simply imagined himself protected by some otherworldly force…as an angel or ghost. The inevitable result of our love certainly never seemed to cool his passion. I have known from the earliest days of my pregnancy that he would be slow to accept his impending fatherhood. He is stubborn, demanding, selfish, and at times, utterly childish. Were I to be perfectly honest, I would confess that I have managed to match him at all of those qualities on occasion. Raising a child requires endless patience, self-sacrifice and love. These things are still so very difficult for Erik. Yet he managed to care for one lost, lonely little girl in Paris, and this is the thought that he clings to now as he tries to imagine caring for the child that we have made together.

He loves me above all else in this world, even his music, and he believes that his love for me will naturally extend to a daughter in my likeness. Always _my_ likeness, never his own. That subject is forbidden, and my own secret longing to see Erik reflected in our child, more specifically, a son, is blasphemy. He still cannot fully trust that I already love this life within me unconditionally, and that no imperfection of flesh will ever change my heart. I cannot even blame him for his lingering doubts, for he has never before known such acceptance in his own life.

I _must _have faith that he will accept our child regardless of what may come to pass. I have watched him slowly move past his fears to wonder in the miracle of our love. He has studied my body in detail and measured each and every change that his child has caused. He made no attempt to disguise the moisture in his eyes when he felt the first stirrings of life beneath his hand. He has quietly whispered promises to his unborn babe against the flesh of my belly when he thinks me asleep. I only pray that he will keep those promises.

My time is growing ever closer, and as eager as I am to be a mother, I am also terrified. So many things can go wrong. I do not want to think of leaving my husband and child, but I must face the possibility. _I _must, because _he_ will not. I have never been so naïve to think that Erik is yet able to take on the burden of raising a child alone. Truth be told, I am frightened that, without me at his side, he will forever sink back into his dark despair. So it falls to me secure the survival of my family should God be so cruel as to take me from them now, but I swear by all of Heaven and Hell that I will fight the Devil himself to remain with Erik and our child.

Nadir has sworn to me that he will do everything within his power to see that my husband will not follow me into death. Madame Giry has promised the same, and that my child shall never be abandoned. The Baroness d'Amboise will see that her great niece or nephew will never want for anything in life. I am so grateful for all of them, but deep down, I know that if I leave my child, then she shall always want for the mother's love that was denied to her. Just as I did. As Erik did.

Oh, God, please…_please _do not take me from them! I shall gladly suffer an eternity of damnation if only you grant me a lifetime on earth with Erik and the family that we have made.

My hand is trembling now where it rests against his throat, my eyes are stinging with unshed tears, and my heart is racing from this surge of emotion. Erik has begun to stir next to me, waking from his restful slumber. I cannot hide my distress from him, I know. He shifts beside me and opens his eyes…such beautiful eyes...they have always reminded me of the sea after a storm. Half hooded, his gaze rests upon my face and his lips curve into a lazy smile. He always smiles when he wakes to find me next to him, happy that he was not merely dreaming my presence in his life. When the blur of sleep clears from his vision, the smile instantly falls away.

"Christine?" His exquisite voice, even rough with sleep and threaded with concern, never fails to turn my name into music. "Why have you been crying, mon ange?"

Deep within me, my womb tightens painfully, pushing the breath from my lungs. How long since the last? Ten minutes now? Erik's hand is pressed against my belly, and terror is beginning to color his expression. The discomfort passes again, and I attempt a shaky smile.

_Please God…_

"I think that the time has come to meet our child, Erik."

* * *

**A/N: **This piece is a bit of an experiment for me…my virgin attempt at a first person narrative. Any feedback will be most welcome. 

My thanks to all of you have been reading and reviewing these little scenes.


	6. Your Obedient Servant

**Your Obedient Servant **

_The time has come to meet our child…_

_The time has come…_

_Her time has come…_

Dear God, how did I come to this? Banned from my wife's side and talking to You when we have never before been on speaking terms. All for her…always for her. You have cursed me since my birth, and I expect no compassion from You now. I will make no false accolades.

But Christine…

Oh, Christine…

She is _my _angel. You cannot have her yet! You _must_ not take her from me. I _need_ her.

Oh, _please_, I _need_ her…

I will pay whatever price You ask of me, if only You will keep her…keep them _both_ safe.

"Erik, my friend." I hear a clattering of glass from above and whiff the pungent aroma of Grappa. "Drink this. It will help to calm your nerves."

A kilogram of opium would not calm my nerves, you insufferable Persian! Did I say that out loud? He makes no reply, and taps the glass again. Look up, man. Shake your head. Do something to acknowledge his presence. He must think me a heartbeat away from succumbing to madness. Oh…wait…I've already done that. I threatened to strangle that poor excuse for a physician attending to my wife.

I _despise_ this feeling of helplessness. My stomach turns at the thought of my beloved Christine in so much pain, and all because of me.

"Erik? Are you listening?"

"Go away, Daroga." I know he will not do as I ask. He never does. I expect that he will make some witty comment right about now.

"So that you may go and harass the doctor again. I think not."

I finally lift my head from my hands to take note of Nadir's concerned expression. "Guard the door if you must, but leave me be."

He shrugs and sets the glass on the table in front of me, quietly retreating to a chair in the corner. _You are a good man, Nadir. Watching over Christine's poor, overwrought husband. No doubt she made you promise to keep me from tearing the villa to pieces. _God willing…and there I go again, invoking His name…we will all look back at this moment and laugh at how truly inept an expectant father I have been.

I never felt the need to father a child. Children are messy, clingy, needy little creatures, and I have little patience for them. That is not to say that I despise them entirely…they can be entertaining enough in small doses.

Perhaps if I had led a life less extraordinary, as it were, I might have experienced the urge to propagate…to leave behind some little version of myself to carry on my name. _My_ name…I have had so many, and none of them were my own until recently. No doubt, my aunt believes that I should be proud to claim the De Chagny name and pass it along to my children.

_Children? _Good Lord, Christine has me thinking in the plural. I never even wanted this one! I only wanted her.

My angel.

She saved me from the hell in which I had existed for so long. Even as a child, she possessed an innocence, a sweetness, that I could not resist. She was always so willing to think the best of everyone, so trusting, so untainted, and I cannot deny that I took full advantage. Really, who else but Christine would have disregarded the stories of the Opera Ghost and believed that the disembodied voice whispering to her was truly an angel sent by her father? She can laugh about it now, but at the time, it was quite a faux pas on my part.

Why did I do such a thing? Her voice, of course. I certainly _did not_ entertain any romantic dreams about a mere child! I would have ignored her entirely, but she seemed so sad and needy during her first tearful visits to the chapel. The opera house would have swallowed her whole were she left to her own devices. I suppose that I felt some kinship with her utter despair, but it was her voice that earned my interest. Such raw potential.

I suppose that my own boredom might have had some influence, as well. One could only suspend Carlotta's annoying little doggies from the flies so many times before the ensuing scenes became repetitive. Christine was my project. For years, she represented nothing more than the chance to bring my music to the world. It was only as she grew into womanhood that my desires transformed into those of a man.

I had been an unwanted child, a carnival attraction, a murderer, a recluse, an assassin, and a ghost…but I had _never_ been a _man_. Christine tells me that I am not repulsive to look upon. She tells me that she has seen other women watch me with purely feminine interest. I am not certain that I believe her, but I will not deny that I simply would never have thought to look for the signs of a lady's attention before Christine.

Hers is the only attention that I crave. I still find it difficult to fathom what she can see in me, after everything that I have done, but I am a selfish thing by nature. I gave Christine the chance to go off and have her perfect life with her perfect boy, but she chose music. She chose _me_.

And she is even now laboring to bring my child into the world.

I confess that I underestimated her determination to procreate. I imagined that her career as Prima Donna of _La Fenice _would keep her sufficiently occupied. I was, of course, completely wrong. It is my own fault, I know. I should never have allowed her to be introduced to Sophia and Franco's children. The charming little hellions awakened her maternal urges, and, seeing that I tolerated them admirably enough, she deluded herself into thinking me a suitable papa. She chooses to forget that children are much more agreeable when one can bid arrivederci to them and leave their parents to clean up the mess.

Our lives will never be our own again. I have consoled myself with the promise of molding our daughter, for I am unashamed to admit that I will much prefer a girl child, into the greatest diva that the world will ever know. I do not mention this to Christine, as she has been known to get a touch snippy over the subject of being outshined, even by her own offspring. I simply assure her that she will always be my angel of music, and leave it at that.

No, I had no wish to be a father, but I confess that I have grown rather attached to the notion in these past months. If nothing else, I am certain that Christine will be a wonderful mother. She has disregarded my very real concerns that the child will be…like me, and I cannot help but believe her when she says that she will love our child regardless of its appearance. She loves _me_, after all.

I want to think that it will not matter, but I have lived in this world too long to turn a blind eye to its cruelty. I only know that I will not repeat the mistakes of my own father. _My _child will be protected at any cost.

It is truly a remarkable and humbling thing for a man to witness the ultimate proof of a woman's love in her readiness to nurture his child with her body….to watch her flower and thrive as the life within her grows stronger. I had never before thought much on the subject, but the last months have been a revelation.

I have composed operas, designed buildings, thrown paint onto canvas and called it art, but none of my creations can ever compare to the wonder that Christine is bringing into being. My contribution has been minimal, and I have been, for the most part, consigned to the role of spectator. Yet she has borne the weight of her burden with absolute joy. I am in awe of her.

And in love with her…with them both. How can I be otherwise?

Christine is my reason. Without her, I am merely a ghost. The child is an extension of her, and more…yes, so much more…my chance to have something pure and completely untainted by my past. I would gladly trade my life for theirs.

My beloved's unparalleled soprano hits a most discordant note, and I cannot breathe. I can hear nothing but the relentless throbbing of my own pulse. _Damn Nadir! Damn the doctor!_ I will _not_ be kept from my wife for one moment more.

The Daroga is not quick enough to prevent my escape from the room, and I ignore my aunt's protests. _This simply isn't done. _As if I should care! My only concern is for Christine. They are giving chase, but I will not be stopped. My hand on the door is only halted by the unexpected wail of a baby. Everything else grows eerily quiet.

_Dear God…please…_

The door is thrown open, it must have been by my hand, though I cannot recall. My eyes seek her out, pale and exhausted upon the bed, her curls in tangles and soaked with sweat, but she smiles weakly in my direction. I feel as though I can finally breathe again, but even that is an effort as I watch Antoinette approach my wife's side with a swaddled bundle that she carefully transfers into Christine's eager arms. The look of wonderment upon my wife's face takes my breath once again.

"A healthy daughter, Signor."

I do not acknowledge the doctor, nor fully comprehend his words. All of my attention is on Christine, and I am silently drawn forward…ever closer…filled with a strange fascination for the vision my wife holding our child for the first time.

"Oh, Erik," her voice is raspy from her ordeal, I shall have to see that she does not strain it further, "look at her."

Her eyes have not parted from the baby, and her countenance radiates with the most profound love. Seeing her thus, all of my fears suddenly seem foolish. I realize that I have yet to look upon the face of our daughter, and my gaze travels downward. My chest is painfully tight, and my legs are suddenly too weak to support me. I am careful not to jostle them as I sink onto the edge of the mattress. I can feel Christine's attention finally turn to me, but now _I_ cannot look away from the tiny form in her arms.

Everything about it…about _her_…is so very tiny. Her tiny little fingers are curled into tiny little fists, her face…her _unmarred_ face…is red and wrinkled, and set into a tiny little scowl, her eyes are closed and her little mouth is emitting noises of displeasure. My trembling fingertip is ever so gently brushing over her smooth cheek before I even realize that my hand has moved. So _soft_, and delicate…with little tufts of dark hair sticking up every which way. She is certain to end up with a head full of curls just like her mother.

_So beautiful_.

"She is."

Christine's response momentarily draws my focus away from the little angel that she holds, and I realize that I must have spoken my thoughts. She is smiling through her tears, a look of joy upon her face that I have never before seen, and I realize that I, too, am smiling. Grinning like an idiot, by the feel of things. The faint taste of salt on my tongue alerts me to my own tears.

"Oh, Christine." My voice fails me...now, when I most need it. I want to tell her how I love her…how grateful I am for this gift that she has given me…how happy I am in this moment...how terrified, but the words will not come. Perhaps she understands what I cannot seem to say…all of the vows and promises that I wish to make…for her smile grows impossibly brighter. Christine knows me too well to doubt that I am already firmly wrapped around our daughter's tiny finger.

The need for speech leaves me, and I settle for a far more efficient means of communication. I savor the gentle brush of my lips against hers. There will be time enough to define this abundance of emotion with mere words. I can see her fatigue taking hold now, but I know that she is not yet ready to relinquish this moment. Nor am I, truth be told, and I wrap my arms around my little family as best I can. Christine rests her head against my shoulder, cuddling our daughter to her breast, and I am content.

I am theirs.

* * *

**A/N:** Erik never plays nice with my muse. Ah well, I hope I did him justice. 

As always, thanks to my readers and reviewers. I may have a few more of these little scenes left in me.


	7. Her Father Promised Her

**Her Father Promised Her **

He was being watched.

The prickling fingers of awareness scraped across his nape, and he attempted to shrug off the distracting sensation until he could finish the composition that he had been so feverishly laboring over for the better part of two days. His intruder, however, was not discouraged. He sensed a flutter of movement vibrating through the room and his gaze slid down just as a tumble of chestnut curls and two wide, green-blue eyes peeked around the side of the piano. Suppressing a grin, he looked away and appeared to lose himself once again in his music, but his exceptional hearing picked out the tiny frustrated huff over the melody.

He felt the bench wobble slightly under the added weight of the form scrambling to mount, and, failing to find a suitable purchase, two little hands fisted resolutely into his pant leg and gave a hard tug. His fingers stilled over the ivory, abruptly halting the music. With an exaggerated sigh, Erik glanced down at his four and a half year old daughter, who, with a determined little frown, was still attempting to use his fine Italian trousers as a climbing rope.

"Angelique," he drawled, "what has papa told you about interrupting him whilst he is composing?"

Her activities ceased immediately, and she looked up at him with an expression of innocence so very much like her mother's that Erik idly wondered if Christine had been tutoring their progeny in the art of swaying him with womanly wiles. The child pursed her lips thoughtfully for a moment before she grinned. "That I should 'cause I aspire you."

"_In_spire, ma petite," he chuckled, turning to grasp her under her arms and heft her up onto his lap. He delighted in the comfortable weight of her little body tucked so trustingly against him. "And I do not believe that those were my exact words."

With her well-practiced, adorable pout firmly in place, and this was undeniably learned at her mother's knee, she asked, "Don't I _in_-spire you, papa?"

Erik grinned, knowing better than to engage his daughter thus, for one well placed tear never failed to render him utterly devastated. "You are my muse, bel ange."

Her brows drew together in puzzlement. "What's a moos?"

Erik chuckled. Angelique was a brilliant child, but she was still very much a _child_. Even so, he refused to placate her with childish answers, so instead he used the opportunity to further her vocabulary, which was already quite impressive. "A goddess of divine _inspiration _whose very existence motivates mere mortals to create profound works of art…or music."

She considered this explanation carefully, then nodding in approval, she beamed up at her father. "I'm a goddess."

"Yes, ange, a true goddess," he dropped a kiss onto her curls, "just like your mamma."

Angelique crossed her arms haughtily. "Mamma interrupts when you make music."

"Mamma makes music _with _me, bel ange."

"I can, too," she insisted adamantly, and Erik smiled fondly as he recalled her many previous attempts to improvise an accompaniment upon his violin. Without doubt, undeveloped talent existed in those little fingers, but she was very much in need of guidance, and he suspected that his poor instruments would not long survive her untrained hands.

"Patience, ma petite," he crooned as he shifted her slight form upon his lap and tenderly tipped her chin up in order to more fully catch her gaze. "You must learn to crawl before you can fly."

"But I don't wanna fly," she insisted with furrowed brow. "I wanna sing and play the vi-lin like you, papa."

"And so you shall," he gently tapped his finger against the tip of her nose, "with practice."

Predictably, her lower lip curled into the familiar pout. "Practice is boor-ring."

_Already playing the diva_, he thought dryly. "But necessary if you wish to be a great musician."

Again, the child paused to consider her father's words. "Like you and mamma?"

"Yes, Angelique."

"Promise?"

"I promise," he vowed solemnly.

The child chewed on her lip a moment before looking up at her father dubiously. "Cross your heart?"

"As many times as you wish, bel ange," and he was distressed to see uncertainty still shining in her eyes. His little angel had never before questioned his word, and he felt the sting of her mistrust pierce his heart. He was surprised to hear the slight tremble in his voice as he asked, "Do you doubt me?"

By way of an answer, his daughter artlessly shrugged. "You promised mamma not to wear the outside face in the house."

Erik touched his mask absentmindedly. "I had forgotten," he muttered. Very early in Angelique's life, Christine had insisted that he never cover his face when in their daughter's presence. He had objected at first, of course, believing that his unmasked visage would frighten the innocent babe, but Christine had wanted Angelique to knowher _father_, not the disguise he chose to hide behind. To please her, he had removed his mask, steeled himself against the inevitable, and taken the tiny form in his arms to gaze down upon her as nature had made him. To his utter delight, his daughter had not cried, but had smiled up at him with chubby pink cheeks and wide blue eyes, and for the first time in his life, Erik had known unconditional love.

From that moment on, his mask had been forsaken whilst in the sanctity of his home. The outside world, however, had been another matter entirely, and the first few times he had forgotten to take the mask off before looking in on his infant daughter had resulted in horrified screams that had not abated until he had removed the offending item. He had thought it all rather ironic, considering that his unmasked face usually garnered those reactions, until Christine had pointed out that Angelique simply did not recognize her papa when he hid his face behind the cold, expressionless façade. Even when she had grown older, she had found it difficult to accept his need to hide his face in order to accommodate the delicate sensibilities of polite society, and she would grow quite petulant whenever he wore it in her presence. Indeed, he was mildly surprised that she had not insisted that he remove it the moment she had entered the room.

"Mamma would be mad," she pointed out sagely, offering her best attempt at Christine's reproachful glare.

Erik lifted the worn leather away from his face and sat it carefully upon the piano before returning his attention fully to his daughter and whispering conspiratorially, "Only if she catches me."

"She always catches you, papa."

"That she does," he agreed with a smile. "Your mamma is a very clever woman, ma petite"

"Am I clever, papa?"

"You are, as well you know."

"Will the new baby be clever, too?"

"Of cour…" His thoughtless words came to an abrupt halt as the question fully registered, and he felt suddenly dizzy. "Did you say _baby_?"

"Uh huh," she nodded with a grin. "Mamma said to ask you."

His heartbeat fluttered erratically as he cast his memory back for a word, a sign that he had missed. Surely Christine was not… "What precisely did your mother tell you, bel ange?"

"I asked her for a baby sister, but she said I had to ask you." She turned her hopeful face up to her father, and asked as casually as if asking for a new doll, "Can I have one, papa?"

Erik's astonished "Why?" escaped without any attempt at delicacy.

"'Cause girls are better than boys," she answered with a roll of her eyes, as if the fact should be perfectly clear to him.

With a stunned shake of his head, Erik chose to ignore the superiority of a girls to boys for the moment. "Angelique, do you understand what having a baby in the house would mean? You would have to share mamma's attention, and your toys, and music lessons." Was his voice sounding slightly desperate?

"I know that, papa. I can share."

When had his little girl decided that she desired a sibling? True that Christine had been hinting lately that their daughter should have a playmate, but Angelique had seemed perfectly content being a pampered only child. How could he ever hope to refuse them both?

_Do I truly wish to refuse them?_

Admittedly, he had taken to fatherhood rather well, but to attempt it a second time was precarious at best. He and Christine had been blessed with one perfect child, to ask for another could well be tempting Fate too far. At his continued silence, Angelique began to fidget with his watch fob.

"I'll be a good big sister, papa. I promise. Even if I get a brother instead of a sister."

The pitiful note of pleading in her voice tightened his throat, and he gathered her into his arms, hugging her to him and hoarsely whispering, "You would be an excellent sister, ma petite," before placing a kiss to her forehead. "But such a thing…cannot simply be asked for," he reasoned. "There is quite a bit more involved."

Again, the child rolled her eyes. "I _know _about babies, papa."

Erik raised his brows in surprise. "You do? How?"

"Mamma told me. Signora Josette is growing one in her tummy and she let me touch while it was moving around in there," she scrunched her little nose. "It felt strange."

Ah yes, Erik suddenly recalled that Christine had taken Angelique along last week to visit her friend, who was in the midst of her first confinement. It appeared that his daughter had gotten far more from the little excursion than he had anticipated. He cleared his throat nervously, attempting to think of a suitable reply. "Well, then…you realize that…a baby would…that is to say…it takes time to…I cannot promise…"

"What your papa is trying to say, chéri," Christine smoothly interrupted as she glided into the music room with twinkling eyes and a knowing smile, "is that we shall have to…discuss…the matter further." She stopped beside the piano bench and bent down to gently tousle her daughter's curls. "Will that do for now?"

"Yes, mamma," Angelique replied with a grin, effortlessly allowing herself to be transferred from her father's lap to her mother's waiting arms. Erik made no protest, wondering just how long his wife had been lingering outside the door.

Christine kissed her daughter's cheek. "Now, it is well past your bedtime, little one. Let's leave your papa to his work," and she met Erik's bewildered gaze with an impish grin and a wink.

A dutiful, "Yes, mamma," was uttered before the child flashed an identical grin down to her father. "'Night, papa."

"Goodnight, bel ange," he murmured absently, his eyes still locked on Christine as awareness began to descend upon him. As he watched them disappear out the door, he knew without a doubt that he had just been played to perfection.

Rising from the bench, he started to follow the trail of feminine giggles. After all, he and his very clever wife had _much_ to _discuss_.

* * *

**A/N: **I know, it has been several weeks since I added to these vignettes, and I do apologize. Real life has a way of interfering. Can you imagine? Anyway, I hope this little bit of fluff at least elicited a few smiles. 


	8. Love's Duet

This one rates** M.**

* * *

**Love's Duet**

Christine tenderly brushed a stray curl from her sleeping daughter's forehead and dropped a soft goodnight kiss there, thinking again how blessed she was to have her little family. She sensed her husband lingering just outside the door, no doubt waiting for her to emerge so that he could interrogate her on Angelique's not quite innocent request for a sibling. Poor Erik had been completely, adorably, flummoxed. Sighing softly, she smoothed the coverlet over her daughter's slight form one final time before steeling herself to face the music, so to speak.

Closing the door with a quiet click, she turned to find her husband anxiously towering over her, and his hackles were most definitely raised. Before he could comment, she pressed her fingertips against his lips to quiet him. "You'll wake her," she whispered, choosing to seductively trace her fingers along his lower lip and down over the small cleft in his chin before removing them completely. She watched a tiny muscle in his cheek twitch in response, and with a soft smile, she entwined her hand with his and led him down the hallway toward the master suite.

As soon as the barrier of the oak door had successfully shut them away from the rest of the world, Erik gave her hand a gentle tug, spinning her about and imprisoning her within his arms. "Christine, my dear," he purred with deceptively dulcet tones, "is there something that you wish to tell me?"

She looped her arms around his neck, casually toying with the hair at his nape, and smiled up at him with mischief dancing in her eyes. "Nothing of consequence, my love."

"Christine, please, do not tease me. Are you…?" The question trailed off as his arms tightened around her waist, and his gaze dropped downward before lifting to meet hers with determination. "Did Angelique have reason beyond her own fancy to make mention of a…new baby?"

Erik's voice broke on the word _baby_, and Christine's playful smile slipped away in disappointment. "If I were to answer _yes_, would it not be joyful news?"

She felt a tremor pass through him, and his sharp intake of breath. "_Is_ your answer _yes_, Christine?"

His nervousness at the prospect was expected, but something in his expression appeared almost hopeful, or perhaps she was only seeing a reflection of her own hope, for he had not entirely lost his knack for keeping his deeper emotions so frustratingly guarded. She withdrew from his embrace with a sigh, and, ignoring his last question for the moment, she instead addressed their daughter's recent request. "Angelique is growing more aware of life beyond these walls, Erik, and she so enjoys meeting other children. Did you never expect that she might begin to wish for a brother or sister of her own?"

He looked away almost guiltily, offering a helpless shrug. "I had thought that we have been a happy threesome."

"Oh Erik, we have been," she assured him, cupping his beloved face in her hands. "So very happy. Can you not imagine how much joy there would be in making us a foursome?" She watched his gemstone eyes begin to glitter at the thought of exactly _how _they would accomplish this, and felt an answering response deep within her woman's heart.

His arms slid around her again, and he failed utterly to suppress his decidedly wicked grin. "I confess that the idea is not without some appeal."

"Only _some _appeal?" Christine gazed up at her husband through hooded eyes, her palms settling quite naturally over his chest, delighting in the warmth of his skin seeping through the soft linen of his shirt. The vibrations of his low chuckle moved through her.

"Certain aspects of the endeavor would, of course, be quite…_pleasing_," he drawled suggestively before his tone grew serious once again, "but Christine, mon ange, I cannot help but hesitate to undertake any event that might disrupt our peaceful life together."

"You believe that another child would be a _disruption_," she cried indignantly.

His eyes grew wide at the realization of his blunder, and he rushed to soothe her rising ire. "No…no, of course not. I only meant…we are so well settled," he reasoned, pausing at the accusatory arch of her brow, and then cleared his throat uncomfortably, "we have an established routine," but he could see that tact was equally as displeasing to his wife, "and you have your career," he attempted halfheartedly, knowing that she would never stand for _that_ argument.

"_La Fenice _survived my last sabbatical, it will undoubtedly survive another."

Her intractable countenance betrayed no hint of weakness, and Erik finally sighed, "You would truly welcome another confinement?"

A dreamy smile blossomed on her lips. "Oh, yes," she vowed. _With open arms, my angel._ _I would give you a dozen children if only you would wish it so. _

Erik's expression grew wistful. "Even after the trouble that I caused you during the last?"

An airy laugh bubbled forth, and she brought a hand up to caress his cheek. "You _were _rather trying at times, my love," and her smile grew wider at the memory of how anxiously he had monitored her every mood and deed whilst she carried Angelique, "but I am confidant that you will do much better now that you are experienced in such matters."

"My worries would hardly be lessened for having already lived them once," he cautioned.

"That is utter nonsense, Erik," she admonished with narrowed eyes. "You can no longer have any doubts about fatherhood, for you have daily proof in our daughter that you are a wonderful papa, and I think that I have proven to be of a strong constitution, so you cannot claim a fear for my health."

"I will always fear for your health, Christine," he interrupted. "You may as well accept that fact before we begin this venture."

Her breath caught at his pronouncement, her heart fluttering in happy anticipation. "Careful, mon cher," she murmured slowly, "such a statement might be interpreted as your agreement to give our daughter a sibling."

His lips curved slightly, and he pulled her ever closer. "She has very specifically requested a sister."

"Well then," she breathed against his lips, "I shall try not to disappoint."

Whatever witty reply he might have offered was lost in her kiss. She allowed him no gradual slide into passion, but pulled him head first over the edge, and the fall was glorious. In the years since their marriage, the physical expression of their love had lost none of its splendor, and in fact, had become even more exquisite for all the little intimacies that grew daily between husband and wife.

Erik's mask had been thoughtfully abandoned, no doubt in the music room along with half of his formal attire, and Christine felt a tiny quiver of satisfaction that her husband could finally feel so at ease, but it was satisfaction of a different sort that demanded her immediate attention. Her fingers swiftly unhooked the buttons that had survived his own earlier restlessness, and she grinned against his mouth as she called upon the knowledge of her husband's habits.

Lost to a composition, Erik would invariably be drawn to the piano during every waking moment that was not already committed to his other responsibilities. The top coat, hat and gloves that he had worn to his meeting that very afternoon had been left carelessly in the hallway to be picked up by the servants. His waistcoat had undoubtedly not survived the first quarter hour of his work, and she would wager that the cravat, for he still preferred them over the more modern neckties, was hanging from some fixture or another. The vest, as always, would have been unbuttoned, at the very least, before the second hour had passed, and discarded completely by the time that he had finished. His shirt had been gaping open and his hair enticingly tousled when she had found him with Angelique. A mistress could undo him no better than his music.

Yet the growl that she drew from him as her nails scraped his naked chest proved that _nothing _could undo him better than his wife.

Pushing his shirt so very slowly away from his shoulders, Christine chased the path of her fingers with her lips, tasting the salt of his flesh on her tongue and feeling the ripple of muscle against her mouth, until finally, the impeding material drifted forgotten to the floor. "Mmm, much better," she purred, spreading her hands over his back and pressing herself flush against his body.

"Oh, Christine," he groaned huskily, "have you any idea what you do to me?"

Her grin grew wicked. "I've some inkling, my love," and she kissed him deeply, leaving no doubt that she knew exactly how her attentions affected him.

She guided him effortlessly to the bed that they had shared for the past five years, and with a gentle push, had him seated on the mattress. He gazed up at her with a firestorm raging behind his darkened eyes, and she reveled in her power over him…this commanding, passionate man whom she had claimed for her own as surely as he had claimed her. With a sinful smile, she loosened the ties of her simple pale blue house dress and let it shimmer down over her body to pool at her feet. Having forgone a corset when she had dressed that morning, she stood before Erik in only a translucent shift, delighting in the way his breath caught in wonder at the sight of her, even after so many years of marriage.

He reached out and grasped her waist, pulling her to stand between his knees before his long fingers twisted into the sheer fabric and steadily lifted upward until every inch of her silken skin was revealed to him. Only then did he lean forward ever so slightly for a taste. Christine gasped in pleasure, tangled her fingers into his hair and pulled him closer, her entire being focused on the point where Erik's mouth feasted upon her exposed flesh.

"Erik, please," she panted, and felt his answering smile against her breast.

"My charming little seductress," he whispered, "tell me what will please you."

Her hands fell from his head to his shoulders. "You," she breathed, pressing him back onto the mattress until he was pinned beneath her. "Only you," she murmured against his mouth, "always you."

Time melted away, details blurred as the senses took precedence. Erik's touch enflamed her as he lovingly adored her form, no longer as lithe and willowy as it once had been in her youth, but ripe with womanly curves of which her husband wholeheartedly approved. She sighed in bliss, hearing his whispered endearments, watching his eyes burn with love and desire, breathing in his scent and tasting the flavor of his kisses. Surrounded by him, she let herself fall, knowing that her angel would always catch her.

She surfaced long minutes later in a sea of contentment, held securely in Erik's tender embrace. His left hand traveled slowly along her side until it was splayed wide over her belly. A little tingle of warmth spread out from his fingers to settle deep within her, and her own hand unconsciously moved over his as she silently rejoiced in the promise of new life.

"I find myself becoming more and more enamored with this project of ours, mon ange," he finally confessed. "Indeed, I am confident that if we are diligent in our _pursuit_ that we will soon achieve the desired result."

"As am I," she whispered with a purely feminine smile.

_And sooner than you imagine._

As he covered her smiling lips with his own, Christine decided that the morning would be soon enough to confess that the answer to his earlier question had, in fact, been _yes_.

* * *

**A/N:** Obviously, this scene picked up right after the last. 

For anyone who might be interested...apparently, I was in the mood to write love scenes this past week because I also did some editing to the second vignette, _Box Five_, to make it a bit more…ahem…_satisfying_…in it's **M** content. As is my style, there is nothing too explicit in the language, but the end of the scene has been extended somewhat.


	9. That Exceptional Beauty

**That Exceptional Beauty**

Christine awoke to the unpleasant sensation of rapidly cooling sheets where a warm body should have been, her drowsy eyelids fluttered open to encounter only the silent blackness that was indicative of the ungodly hour. Mind still fuzzy from blissful dreams, she was slow to comprehend a possible reason for her husband's abandonment of her, but as her hand languidly slid over her flat abdomen and brushed her heavy, tender breasts, she realized with a start that she must have slept straight through their littlest one's nightly demand for nourishment.

_Why in heaven did Erik not wake me?_

Pushing herself into an upright position, she reached over to the bedside table and fumbled for the match sticks. A flair hissed to life as the scent of burnt phosphorus filled the air, and she transferred the little flame to the nearby candle before snuffing out the match. The flickering amber glow revealed the hour to be well past three o'clock, the cradle at the foot of the bed to be empty, and no trace of Erik in the room. A shiver of apprehension raced down her spine, which she forcibly dismissed, thinking herself terribly melodramatic to suspect any mischief afoot. Nevertheless, she hastily donned her peignoir, grabbed the candle and padded down the hallway, stopping briefly to peek into the darkened nursery.

Seeing that room vacant as well, she moved quietly to the adjoining room and paused over the form of her eldest child. Angelique was sprawled across her bed in wild disarray with her curls spread out in tangles over the pillow and the covers twisted around her legs. Smiling softly, Christine bent down, managing to free a sheet from the jumble of blankets and tugged it up over her daughter's shoulders. The fabric had barely settled before Angelique shifted irritably in her sleep and threw the covering down below her waist.

_Stubborn girl_, her mother thought with an indulgent grin.

Turning from Angelique, Christine crossed the room to the second bed and knelt beside Régine, brushing the dark curls away from her peaceful little face. Unlike her sister, she was snuggled comfortably inside a warm cocoon of blankets with the coverlet pulled up to her chin. In this child, Erik's wish for an exact likeness of Christine had been fulfilled even more surely than it had been with Angelique. Where the eldest daughter had inherited her father's sea green eyes, firm mouth, complete with adorable lisp, and, daresay, temperament, the younger was proving everyday to be more like her mother, with wide set brown eyes, full pouting lips, and a quiet disposition.

The poor child had even been cursed with her mother's ears. Christine had always thought them to be her own worst feature, protruding just a bit too much for her taste, and the only real blessing of her near unmanageable curls were their effectiveness in hiding her least admired trait.

Régine had entered the world little less than three years before, much to the delight of her older sister, not to mention her father, who had been rather smug at being proven correct in his assertion, once again, that Christine would bear a daughter. She had held no great regard for his success in those predictions, knowing as she did that Erik had an undeniably soft heart when it came to little girls, but she had been forced to entirely reevaluate her theory when he had proclaimed very early in her last pregnancy that she would finally deliver the son that she had so long hoped to give him. A blessing that had been bestowed upon them but twenty seven days ago.

With a final affectionate gaze at her two precious girls, she resumed the search for her elusive boys. A suspicion of their whereabouts took hold of her, and she made her way to the staircase. As she crept down, she fondly recalled her daughters' reactions to the arrival of their brother.

_xx_

_Christine tenderly cradled her newborn son to her breast as Erik brought their daughters into the room. Régine was securely held in one of her father's strong arms, and Angelique clung uncertainly to his free hand. Their eldest child had been just so when her baby sister had been born, anxiety over her mamma's long labor just beginning to transform into excitement to meet the newest little person in the house. _

_Upon seeing with her own eyes that her beloved mother was, in fact, perfectly well, Angelique's timidity evaporated, and she tore free of her papa's grasp to race to the bedside. She refrained from clambering up onto the mattress as she had the last time, a fact for which Christine's aching body was most grateful, but instead peered intently down at the wriggling bundle in her mother's arms. _

_Christine smiled tiredly at her daughter, whispering, "Say hello to your brother, ch__é__ri." _

_Angelique's face scrunched up into a disappointed frown. "He's all red and wrinkly," she whined._

"_As he should be after such an ordeal," Erik said from behind her. "You and your sister were both just so when you were born."_

_Angelique gave her father a look that clearly conveyed her disbelief that such a thing could be true. She regarded the baby for a few moments longer, reaching out to stroke one finger over the little patch of raven hair that adorned the top of his head, and a shy smile spread over her face. "I suppose he'll do…for a brother."_

_Christine's smile grew wider, and Erik chuckled, "The highest approval, bel ange." _

_Régine began to squirm in her father's embrace, tugging at his shirt collar. "Wanna see, papa." _

"_So you shall, ma fleur," her promised, settling her carefully next to her mother's side. Much like her sister, Régine frowned intently down at the baby, angling her little head first to the left, and then the right, in an attempt to make up her mind about the strange little creature in her mamma's arms. _

_Coming to some silent decision, she grinned suddenly and cooed, "baby bwudder." _

"_Yes, ma petite," Christine murmured happily, "your baby brother, Gustave."_

_Régine's brows drew down sharply into another frown . "C…Coo…Cooth…off?"_

_Angelique began to snicker at her sister's poor attempt at pronouncing the foreign name, and Christine bit her lip as she met Erik's twinkling eyes over the head of their youngest daughter. Giving into his own happy laughter, he scooped Régine back into his arms and pressed a kiss to her furrowed brow. "Don't worry, little one. You will wrap your tongue around your brother's name soon enough." He directed a loving look to his wife and son, "for the moment, I believe that he is content to meet his two very beautiful, very clever, older sisters."_

_xx_

Christine found them in the music room bathed in the soft glow of the gaslights. Erik was slowly pacing the floor with a slight sway to his gait and his large hands so very carefully holding his tiny son to his chest. He was murmuring to Gustave so softly that she could barely hear him.

"…perhaps a tenor, I think. You've certainly the voice for it," at the baby's slight fussing, Erik began to rock him until he quieted again, "No, eh? You will leave the stage to your sisters, then. There are countless noble professions that you may pursue. Whatever you wish will be yours, my son." A demanding little squeal was Gustave's answer, and Erik chuckled. "Yes, I know. You only want to fill your belly right now, but mamma is exhausted. We must allow her to sleep just a little while longer."

Christine's eyes had grown moist as she watched father and son together, until at last, she wiped away her happy tears and moved into the room, laying her candle aside. "Mamma is very much awake now." Erik turned in surprise at the sound of her voice, and Gustave began to fuss anew, eager now to have his mother. She lovingly brushed her son's smooth cheek, admiring the beautiful sea green eyes that gazed up at her in adoration, and when the tip of her finger grazed his bowed mouth, he latched on and began to suckle. "Your papa is capable of many amazing things, mon trésor, but he is sadly ill equipped in one regard."

Erik grinned sheepishly at his wife as he deftly transferred their hungry son into her arms. "I suppose that I must surrender him to your, ahem, considerable _talents_ in this matter, mon ange."

"You are incorrigible, Erik," she laughingly admonished with a roll of her eyes. Turning her attention to her son, she whispered, "and _you_ have inherited your papa's fondness for my talents as well, haven't you?" Christine settled into the window seat, loosening the drawstring of her nightdress and baring her breast to her son's greedy little mouth. "Ah yes," she said cheekily when he took eager possession of her flesh, slanting a impish look to her husband, "just like your papa."

Erik sank onto the bench beside his wife, eyes glittering with equal parts of desire and wonder at the vision before him. "He certainly knows what pleases him."

"As do all of your children, my love," she teased.

"_Our_ children," he rumbled emphatically, shifting to wrap one arm around her, "whom I adore beyond reason, as I do their beautiful mother."

Christine felt the warmth of complete contentment suffuse her being, and she dropped her head to rest on her husband's shoulder. "I love you, Erik," she whispered.

"The most beautiful music of all."

* * *

**French:  
**_ma fleur _my flower, or my blossom  
_mon trésor _my treasure

* * *

**A/N: **As I did not respond to reviews individually last time, thank you all for the continued interest in these little pieces. I always appreciate your feedback. 


	10. No Relation, I Trust: First Movement

**No Relation, I Trust  
****First Movement**

_Prelude  
__Paris, Fall 1875_

The introduction had been discordant, to say the least, but no one had ever accused Élise de Chagny Durand of being harmonious. As the only daughter in a family ruled by arrogant, aristocratic men, her sole means of protection had been the affectation of indifference that had eventually become her nature. Had Hélène de Chagny lived long enough to ease her daughter into womanhood, Élise might have learned the grace necessary to transform her vanity into true elegance. Alas, the De Chagny pride had manifested as insensitive conceit, and her privileged upbringing had never been tempered by a true sense of charity.

This was a failing that her aunt, the Baroness Anne-Marie d'Amboise, took entirely upon her own shoulders. She had not been forceful enough in her attempts to mentor her niece, who, while certainly haughty and condescending at times, was not a bad sort of woman. Well past the silliness of her vapid youth, Élise possessed a respectable reputation, attended church regularly, took tea in the finest salons in Paris, and generally led a very comfortable life. The world in which she lived had for many years revolved solely around her own person, and while this orbit had been temporarily disrupted by the death of a most beloved brother, Comte Philippe, the sudden intrusion of another brother back from the dead, so to speak, threw the entire system into absolute chaos.

She walked into the parlor with a regal air that might have rivaled an empress, her flaxen hair coiled into an elegant coif, and pristine gown of sapphire reflected in her cool aqua eyes. The perfect, impenetrable armor complimenting her perfect, expressionless face. Every defense had been in place, every prejudice well practiced, a deaf ear turned, blind eyes assessing, and a mind for dissonance.

She greeted the Baroness as she ever did, with the barest whisper of pursed lips glancing first the right cheek, and then the left. "Good afternoon, Aunt," wrapped in crisp, brittle ice, warming only when her gaze had fallen upon Raoul.

For her younger brother, there had been a smile. But for the older…

Her eyes widened, breath catching, at the sight of the grim, masked man looming at the farthest end of the room. Whether shock, or dismay, or perhaps recognition caused the involuntary reaction, the darkening of Erik's countenance indicated a very bad beginning indeed. Muscle twitching in his tightened cheek, he bowed his head in acknowledgement, green-blue eyes glittering dangerously in anticipation.

Élise recovered quickly, poised with rigid spine and insincere tilt to the corners of her pink lips which some might have even considered a smile. She moved closer to the familiar stranger with a fine-boned hand extended for the perfunctory greeting. "Monsieur Villon," silkily uttered in honeyed voice wreathed with smoke, "we meet at last," and the barest hint of waver was evident in the timbre of her intonation when his mouth obediently brushed her graceful fingers.

"Madame." Simple, succinct, and with very little inflection.

Verbal niceties observed, Élise shifted back, eyes assessing of the man before her, and then the damning utterance. "I suppose that there is a certain resemblance, although it is difficult to tell with only half of the image."

His gaze hardened, body coiled and teeth bared, all pretence of cordiality forgotten. Only the indiscernible touch of his wife's fingers to the back of his clenched fist aborted the strike. The danger remained unnoticed, or disregarded by the lady, but the action had not, and her wintry gaze fell upon Christine. Background melody of "half is more than sufficient, my dear. Erik is the image of your father," delivered in the Baroness's rich alto faded beneath the hum of unyielding feminine appraisal.

Here, there had been history.

A young, idealistic brother had appeared, ragged and dispirited, towing a dirty pale waif, all dark empty eyes and darker aura with soul bleeding out on the marble floors. A more unfit Vicomtesse-to-be had never been seen, but a man blinded by love was also deaf to reason. Élise had accepted, but never approved, and her reservations had been rewarded when Christine had finally left Raoul shattered beneath her heel.

She had not forgotten.

One brother to another, an even greater disgrace to the family than the man she stood beside, but she seemed stronger now, more alive. No longer a mouse. "Christine, my dear," tight smile, glistening with frost, "it has been quite some time since last we met. You are certainly looking very…healthy."

Healthy, wealthy and scarlet seething. No longer the mouse, but Erik's wife.

"Undoubtedly the mark of a happy marriage." A bit of (mis)direction by Aunt Anne-Marie. "Do you not agree, Élise? How is your husband?"

Conducting the players this way and that.

xXx

_Overture  
Paris, Christmas 1877 _

The second attempt had lost some of its dissonance, flavored as it had been by the presence of a child. Never one to admit defeat, the Baroness had invited and cajoled until her niece and nephews had grown too exhausted to continue in their attempts to avoid the inevitable reunion. Three generations of the De Chagny family and their mates had been uncomfortably reunited beneath one roof.

The first to accept had been Raoul, in all his predictable nature, making every effort to please his Aunt as her age advanced and her time grew shorter. Just such an appeasement had taken him to Venice as her companion the winter before, and he had been tolerated in Erik's home long enough to meet his niece. He had made peace enough with his disappointments to savor a taste of happy anticipation in seeing Christine and her daughter once again. He felt the effects of family, though he had yet to begin one of his own.

The next to accept had been Erik, or rather, Christine on Erik's behalf. She had written that they would travel to Paris with Angelique at the beginning of December and stay until the after the completion of the twelfth night celebration. Two years had passed since their last visit, and Paris had many allures. Families of blood and families of love bound them all.

The last to accept had been Élise, and her hesitation had been borne of darker reasons than the memory of that first unfortunate meeting. Whilst Raoul had been happy in sowing his oats, and Erik had been happy in planting his seed, their sister had suffered more than one unsuccessful harvest. She had twice failed to deliver a child to her husband, and her icy façade had cracked under the weight of despair. A happy family of mother, father and child would be a dagger to her heart, and a rending of her soul.

Yet she had agreed; her last desperate defenses eroded away by her aunt's gentle coaxing, her younger brother's soft smile whenever their niece's name passed his lips, and her own husband's desire to see his wife make peace with her demons. Every De Chagny had a few, it seemed, albeit from different levels of hell.

Élise and Lucien Durand had been the first to arrive that wintry evening, warmly greeted by the Baroness. The gentleman always had much to say, an educated man eager for debate, as any good barrister would be. His keen dark eyes could twinkle with merriment one moment, or turn as hard as granite the next, which was always a benefit to his profession. Friend or foe as the case demanded. He had always been an odd match for Élise, but match her he had with a strong will and soft touch.

Into the midst of this amiable encounter appeared the elegantly attired, masked figure of Erik Villon. His aunt constantly petitioned for the addition of De Chagny to the moniker, but he demurred. Conversation ceased upon his entry, and the Baroness smiled, hand extended toward the prodigal nephew who took it obediently.

"Erik, I was beginning to think that you might not be joining us this evening."

"My apologies, Aunt," said with his most sincere smile. "We were unavoidably delayed by Angelique's ardent refusal to cooperate with the dress code. Christine will be down with her shortly."

"You are forgiven. As you see, your brother has yet to grace us with his presence." She ignored his expected grimace. "I am pleased to finally be able to introduce you to Élise's husband, Monsieur Lucien Durand," her smile grew wider, "May I present my nephew, Erik, Comte de Chagny."

"Erik Villon," he corrected automatically, taking the other man's extended hand and exchanging polite greetings with his brother-in-law.

"I understand that you have earned quite a reputation throughout Italy for you innovative architectural designs," Lucien ventured by way of small talk. "Élise and I have yet to tour that country, but I am hopeful that we shall one day soon."

No reply was made, but the awkwardness of the silence was short lived, for a toddler attired in red velvet tumbled inelegantly into the room and attached herself to her father's leg with a squeal of "Papa!"

A glance down to his daughter melted away Erik's detachment, and an adoring grin softened his expression. "Testing your wings again, bel ange?"

Christine appeared only a heartbeat later in pursuit of her wayward child. Dressed festively in a modest gown of forest green, she moved immediately to her husband's side with a look of tired exasperation upon her lovely face and an apologetic smile, resting a protective hand upon the top of her daughter's mahogany curls.

"She is no doubt testing her mother's patience, as well," the Baroness observed, "but that is to be expected now that she is discovering the world outside of her nursery walls." She smiled indulgently at the child, who regarded the adults surrounding her with wide-eyed fascination. "Christine, my dear, may I present Lucien Durand."

"A pleasure, monsieur," in her silken tone. She smiled warmly at the older gentleman and extended her hand, which he took with an answering smile.

"The pleasure is mine, Madame Villon. I am a great connoisseur of the performance arts, and your voice has been often praised as a true thing of beauty, though I myself have never had the fortune of hearing you sing."

Christine laughed lightly at the thinly veiled hint. "Perhaps we might rectify that great misfortune after dinner this evening," with a glance to her husband, "if Erik will agree to accompany me."

The compliment to Christine did not pass unnoticed, and Erik seemed of a mind to reward the other man for his congenial attitude. "I am at my diva's command."

"I would be most appreciative." Lucien then directed his attention to the child, bending down slightly to address her in a gentle voice. "You must be Angelique." At the mention of her name, she smiled bashfully, and then promptly hid her face in the fabric of her father's trousers.

"Chéri," Christine chided gently, "greet your uncle properly."

She turned her face slightly, peeking up at the strange man through dark lashes, and regarded him closely for a moment as she judged whether or not he was someone that she might like. Her smile bloomed wider. "B'jor unca."

Lucien was smitten. "Bonsoir, mademoiselle."

Élise had remained silent throughout the exchange, drifting closer and closer to her husband's side, ever conscious of the tremulous nature of her acquaintance with both her brother and his wife. Yet her glittering eyes had not wavered once from the child, and two tiny curves lifted the corners of her mouth, softening her countenance imperceptibly. So it came as a great surprise to everyone when Angelique seemed to take a sudden interest in the pretty lady standing just behind her newfound uncle. Releasing her firm grip on her father's trousers, she lurched forward, steadied by her mother's supportive hand, and stared up at Élise with a rapt expression.

"B'jor."

Clearing her throat uncomfortably, Élise whispered, "Bonjour, Angelique."

The child giggled happily at the sound of her aunt's voice. "Pwetty."

A true smile appeared on the woman's face, startling both Erik and Christine, although it would not be until much later that they would confess their mutual astonishment to one another, for it was the first time that either had ever borne witness to what lay hidden beneath Élise's mask of indifference.

As if suddenly realizing herself, she straightened, schooling her features once again, and settled her gaze on Christine. Her lips twitched upward ever so slightly. "She is a beautiful child, Christine. You have been truly blessed." For once, there was not a hint of insincerity to be found beneath her words.

"Yes," Christine glanced to her husband with a soft glow illuminating her features, "we have been."

The tension eased. The movement continued.

And _a little child shall lead them_.¹

* * *

¹ _A little child shall lead them. Isaiah 11:1-10_

* * *

**A/N:** I know…it's been awhile. Once again, pesky real life interferes. Job stress and a mild case of writer's block made the Élise-centric vignette a headache to complete. And then it got to be a bit longer than I expected, so I split it in half. Part two will be this weekend, for anyone who is still interested . 

_Prelude_ is meant to be a rather dissonant piece, and you will undoubtedly recognize the earlier scene, this time in Élise's perspective. _Overture_ is just playing with the language. Hopefully they are not too badly overdone.


	11. No Relation, I Trust: Second Movement

**No Relation, I Trust  
Second Movement**

_Intermezzo  
Venice, Summer 1880_

The slow progression of accord had required a great deal of patience by the De Chagny family, and patience had never been a prominent trait. While matters remained tremulous at times, enough improvements had been made to enable a general tranquility amongst the members when left undisturbed.

Raoul had finally tied himself to a prominent Parisian clan through the silken bonds of matrimony. Céleste Benoit was not his grand passion, to be certain, but the marriage was agreeable to them both. By silent agreemant, no mention was ever made of the occasional sadness in the Vicomte's eyes that bespoke of missed opportunities…and not all of them credited solely to Christine. His life became centered in Paris, and he rarely ventured into his brother's sphere, which served them both very well.

Élise, however, had been gradually encroaching upon her elder brother's domain, drawn ever closer by the lure of a much beloved niece. Angelique had taken an instant liking to her aunt, as only a child can, ignorant of any friction between the adults surrounding her. She knew only that her aunt would send her beautiful dolls and frilly trinkets on her birthdays, and tell her tales of faeries and princesses in that fanciful, French lilted voice.

Christine had sensed the softening in Élise's temperament over the years, and had, in her usual sweet and forgiving manner, made every effort to improve relations with Erik's sister. Erik himself had been somewhat more recalcitrant, but his daughter's delight upon those occasional visits from her _Auntie 'Lise_ had eventually quieted his protests.

It was on just such a visit that Erik somehow found himself seated in his _palchi _at his sister's right side during the intermission of Hermann Goetz's _Der Widerspränstigen Zähmung._¹ Lucien, who had acted as an effective buffer between the siblings, had excused himself to enjoy one of the cigars that his wife repeatedly begged him to give up, and Élise, much to Erik's discomfort, had chosen to remain in the box. The silence was deafening.

His gaze flickered to observe her flawless profile. As ever, she was perfectly coifed, with not a strand of shiny blond hair out of place, and her pale blue gown was made from the finest silk and cut in the latest fashion. He vaguely wondered if she had always been so impeccably proper, even as a little girl. Perhaps not, for he had caught just a glimmer of playfulness in her manner, from time to time, when she would spin fantastic stories for his daughter. If Raoul had a predilection for playing the hero, then Élise certainly favored the role of princess. Erik supposed that would leave him cast as the villain.

Sensing his contemplation of her, she turned to him with a raised brow, which he returned in kind, a challenging grin curving his lips. "Are you enjoying the performance?"

Truce or not, it was hardly a secret that Élise still disapproved of a De Chagny wife performing upon the stage, even if it was the wife of her black sheep brother. To Erik's surprise, she refused to rise to his bait, and instead smiled pleasantly. "Very much so, as is Lucien, I am certain. He has been eagerly anticipating the chance to finally attend a performance at the famed _Teatro la Fenice._" There was another awkward silence as Erik regarded her strangely with unwavering eyes.

"Christine is in excellent voice tonight," she added stiffly. 

"She is always in excellent voice," he snapped.

Élise glanced away, mumbling, "of course."

Erik looked back to the stage as the orchestra began to return to their seats to begin the overture for Act II. After a moment, a tingling sensation at his nape had his eyes reverting back to Élise, who was now studying him intently. "Have you something more to say?"

"Yes, but I know that you will take offense," she answered unabashedly.

"I only take what you have seemed so adept at giving, madam."

Twin slashes of color appeared upon her cheeks, and her aqua eyes flashed. "You are hardly the innocent, Erik! I was no more pleased by the discovery of your connection to my family than you were, but I am attempting to make amends."

He shifted in his seat, hands curling into fists upon the armrests as he mentally recited the Roman pantheon to calm himself. "I struggle to understand why, when we have proven to have nothing in common."

Élise sighed, "I think perhaps we have far more in common than either one of us would ever care to admit, or so Aunt Anne-Marie often insists. In any event, I have a great deal of affection for my niece, which means that you and I shall each have to continue to suffer through the other's perceived shortcomings."

He sagged slightly in his seat. "Angelique is curiously fond of you."

"She is an exceptional child," she admitted quietly, her eyes suddenly glistening.

Guilt sliced through him at the sadness in her voice, forcing him to remember that his sister had no child of her own, and had no choice but to content herself with being an aunt to his. How ironic that _he_ should be the one to find such happiness in something that he had never thought to have, something that Élise must have once imagined would be her birthright as a woman. At a loss for adequate words, they both fell back into familiar silence.

Lucien returned a moment later, bringing with him the faint scent of tobacco, and settled comfortably next to his wife. Erik did not fail to see the discrete movement of his sister's gloved hand as she reached for her husband's comforting touch. Such a simple action, and one that he had shared with Christine countless times. Not so very different after all.

The gaslights dimmed. The music swelled. The opera resumed.

xXx

Reprise  
Venice, Spring 1884

Inhabitants of Villa della Rosa had long been in the habit of rising early to begin each day, for the master had been notorious for prowling the corridors at ungodly hours even without the demands of a newborn babe. So the recent addition of young master Gustave to the household had caused barely a ripple in the normal routine, but another imminent arrival was certain to cause waves.

Angelique had assumed a post on the window bench in the front salon directly after breakfast, alternately sketching in her notebook and peering through the glass toward the walkways along the canal. Her vigil had been kept for nearly two hours, and she had been so dedicated to her endeavor that she had even declined a music lesson with her beloved papa and younger sister. Christine sat reading in a nearby chair, enjoying some much needed quiet and every so often glancing at her eldest child with a soft smile curling her lips.

The child's diligence was rewarded when she caught a glimpse of the little party strolling over the cobblestones along the water's edge. With a very unladylike squeal of delight, she jumped from her perch, heedless of the notebook and charcoals scattering to the floor in disarray as she darted from the salon toward the foyer.

"Angelique!" Christine shook her head in exasperation, rising gracefully from her seat to follow after her exuberant daughter, stopping only to tidy up the fallen art supplies.

The bell had just chimed when Angelique skidded to a stop on the marble tiles, and far too impatient to wait for their manservant, Marco, to appear, she twisted the knob and threw open the door with a wide grin on her face.

"Auntie 'Lise, Uncle Luc, you're finally here!"

"Bonjour, ange," Élise purred, bending to kiss her niece upon both pink cheeks.

"Buon giorno," Lucien corrected with a smile, carefully lowering the wriggling bundle in his arms to the ground. Young Jean-Luc teetered slightly before being steadied by his father's sure hand. The boy was just two years of age, and had been quite a wonderful surprise to his parents, who had all but given up hope for a child of their own.

"Buon giorno," Christine returned pleasantly as she came to stand behind her daughter. "Please come inside, you must be exhausted from your journey."

"Yes," Lucien pressed an expected kiss to the back of Christine's hand, "but we can hardly complain with such beautiful scenery to behold."

Élise merely rolled her eyes at her husband's attempt at flirtation. "You look well, Christine," and the compliment was genuine. No one would dare call the two women friends, but they had achieved a certain level of understanding, aided greatly by the comfortable expanse of European continent between them.

Removing her gloves and handing them dismissively to the servants who were suddenly hovering about to greet the guests, Élise began to unbutton her frock coat. "I trust that my brother is lurking about somewhere."

"Lurking is what I do best," came the deep, resonant reply as Erik appeared in the foyer with Régine in tow, stopping beside Christine and nodding politely to his sister, with a simple, "welcome." A matching nod was returned in greeting by the lady, who then began issuing orders to the servants to see to their bags.

Régine, meanwhile, had made her way over Jean-Luc, and in the wordless way of very young children, had already made friends with her cousin as evidenced by the wide, toothless grins that they both wore.

Once the necessities of settling in were underway, Angelique wasted no time in seeing to her own agenda. "Auntie 'Lise, I have been reading the books that you sent me for my birthday," she said, referring to the two beautiful leather bound first edition translations of _Childhood and Household Tales_² by the Brothers Grimm that had arrived in February by messenger straight from Paris, "but I much prefer listening to you tell the stories. Will you read me one tonight?"

"Of course, ange," she lovingly brushed her finger's over her niece's curls, "but first," she smiled at Christine, "I have a mind to meet my nephew."

Her request was proudly fulfilled.

xx

Hours later, after the normal pleasantries expected of family visits had been passed and the children tucked into their beds, Élise sequestered her brother for a private conversation in which she matched him with astounding determination.

"You must have realized that you can no longer continue to evade your duty, Erik."

A scowl darkened his features, and he crossed his arms defiantly. "I certainly can."

"You are the most stubborn man that I have ever met."

"Were I a blind man, I would swear that it was the Baroness standing in this room with me."

To his surprise, Élise laughed. "I shall take that as a compliment, in fact. She is the finest woman in my acquaintance."

"Then you admit that she sent you to do her bidding?"

"She may have mentioned something to the effect of my attempting to talk some sense into you during my visit." Élise prowled around the parlor, studying the framed portrait of Christine, the one of their daughters standing side by side that must have been captured very recently, and silently noting the absence of any likenesses of Erik himself.

Sighing, she turned back to her brother. "You have been very lax indeed, happily allowing Raoul to tend to De Chagny business while you hide away in Venice, only wearing your role as Comte when it suits you. Circumstances have changed. Your son will be the next Comte de Chagny, and someone must groom him for his position."

"Gustave will be whatever he chooses to be," Erik growled, "and _no one _will _groom_ him to be a mindless, pampered member of the _so-called _nobility!" Élise visibly recoiled in the face of his anger, and he cursed under his breath, making every effort to soften his tone. "Raoul's future progeny can carry on the infamous De Chagny legacy."

"The legacy already belongs to you, Erik. Gustave's birth has ensured that the title and all of the family interests will pass through you to your son. You would be doing him a great disservice to leave him unprepared for his future responsibilities."

Erik pressed two fingers to his left temple in an attempt to will away his sudden headache. "And you speak of _my_ stubborn nature."

"A family trait," said with an elegant arch of her brow.

"I will…_consider_ the matter."

"You have been _considering the matter _for nearly a decade," she reminded him pointedly.

Erik grinned smugly. "So what is another decade more?"

Élise crossed her arms and graced him with a fair imitation of his darkest glare. "You are impossible."

"A family trait."

The siblings shared a rare smile, standing firmly on solid ground.

And the music played on.

* * *

¹ _Der Widerspränstigen Zähmung_ by Hermann Goetz was performed in Mannheim in 1874 under that title, and much later revived as _The Taming of the Shrew._

² C_hildhood and Household Tales _(original German title _Kinder und Hausmarchen_) by the Brothers Grimm. Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm first published volume one of the collected fairy tales in 1812 (translated 1823) and volume two in 1815 (translated 1826.)

* * *

**A/N:** This went in a slightly different direction than I had planned. For one thing, I intended to leave Élise childess, but darned if she didn't kind of grow on me. I thought that once she loosed up and took the stick out of her unspeakables, she just might get lucky in the motherhood department. 

Thanks to everyone who is continuing to read. To those who take the time to review, I thank you very much for the feedback. It is always nice to hear from you.


	12. A Most Amiable Nature

**A Most Amiable Nature**

"Ah, it is good to be home."

The words escaped into the sparkling Venetian air without thought, and Nadir Kahn chuckled mildly at the absolute absurdity of the sentiment. He had become far too European in his ways. Twenty-five years ago, he would have scoffed at the very notion of leaving his beloved desert homeland in the dust, as it were, in favor of western culture, and western vices. Of course, that was before he had dared to risk the wrath of Allah and the Shah to aid one enigmatic Frenchman.

Returning to Persia was all but impossible considering the circumstances in which he and his masked friend had made their hasty escape. He supposed it was beneficial, then, that he really had no desire to return. He had far too grand a time drifting across the continent, exploring new places, sampling the flavors and reveling in the never ending parade of human nature available to entertain his vast taste for amusement. He certainly deserved such little pleasures after attending to Erik's conscience for so many years; a duty that he had been glad to relinquish into Christine Daaé's capable hands.

She had tamed the beast more effectively than any discipline that Nadir ever could have administered. The once mighty Phantom now bent to his wife's every whim, and one of his two lovely daughters' tiniest pouts could break him completely. No doubt that young Gustave would soon discover his own method of reducing his fearsome father to pulp.

A wide grin split the Persian's weathered face as he set out toward the Villa della Rosa, unexpectedly, of course. What fun could be had in announcing his visits? His latest excursion had taken him through Paris once again, and he had called upon several of his acquaintances, even passing some most enjoyable hours in the company of the good Madame Giry. Indeed, Antoinette always proved a formidable counterpart. Yet returning to the familiar Venetian atmosphere full of crystal waterways and elegant buildings offered him unparalleled delight.

He arrived at his destination amidst the first haze of twilight, admiring the growing twinkle of lights reflecting upon the glassy surface of the Grand Canal. He had come straight from the train station, sending Darius along with the bags to his flat on Riva degli Schiavoni and opting to flag a gondolier for himself. Tossing a few extra coins to the boy, he strolled the short distance along the walk with a bounce in his step and a whistle on his lips. The door opened to reveal the solemn, impeccably attired Marco, who nodded with a stiff bow in place of the smiling greeting that Nadir had grown accustomed to. A frisson of apprehension tickled his nape.

"So formal, my boy," he commented lightly. "Has someone died?"

The straight line of Marco's pursed lips grew crooked, and he muttered lowly, "The master and mistress are entertaining Signor and Signora Durand."

Nadir released a hearty laugh, clapping the servant on his shoulder. "Well, that explains a great deal. It would seem that my arrival is perfectly timed."

Marco shared a conspiratorial smile before taming his expression into that of the serious, respectful servant. "The gentlemen have retired to the terrace, the children to the nursery, and the ladies, I believe, are still in the parlor."

"Alone? Well, I daresay that I shall have to peek in on them before joining the gentlemen. Would you not agree?"

Bowing again to his master's guest, Marco led Nadir to the parlor. He had just a moment to bask in the beauty before him, for he was certainly not immune to the many charms of the fairer sex. Christine sat primly upon a wingback chair, wearing an expression that appeared to him quite akin to boredom. Her polite attention was focused on the occupant of the settee adjacent to her. Angelique, no doubt fancying herself one of the ladies, was engulfed by the cushions, her legs dangling comically, and her wide aqua eyes fastened onto her aunt, who was reciting some dull blither…the words _ballroom_ and _Duchess_ stood out amidst the drone.

On first glance, Élise Durand had not changed much from the last time that Nadir had seen her. She was still all that was elegant and refined, lovely pale hair pinned in an elaborate style, a few perfectly chosen curls left to feather against her flawless cheeks. Her eyes, the hue so like her brother's, glittered with unexpected depth beneath the shallow illusion. As with Erik, it was difficult at times to determine if the wolf was wearing the lambskin, or if the sheep simply had very sharp teeth.

At the announcement of his arrival, three pairs of eyes turned to him with varying degrees of welcome. "Nadir," Christine exclaimed, with perhaps a bit too much vigor. "What a wonderful surprise! When did you return?" She rose from her seat and extended her hands to him in greeting, and he clasped them obligingly between his own with a gentle squeeze.

"Only just this afternoon. I do apologize for the intrusion," although his tone was somewhat less than sincere.

"It is no intrusion. You are always welcome here."

Angelique had sprung from the settee with barely suppressed glee, bouncing lightly on the balls of her feet as she awaited recognition. Grinning, Nadir released Christine and made a grand, sweeping bow to the child, reaching out with upturned palm. "My lady," he drawled, and was quickly rewarded with a giggle and a warm, dainty hand settling into his, "you have grown even lovelier in my absence."

"You're being silly, Uncle Nadir," but a pretty pink blush stained her cheeks. Erik would have to watch this one closely, else every unattached young man for miles would be lined up at his door. Of course, that would likely be an unavoidable outcome no matter what precautions his old friend might take.

He gave a quick, playful kiss to the child's fingers, "most gentlemen are very silly, little one. You must learn to soothe our poor egos." Angelique giggled again, and the other two ladies did well to hide their own mirth.

Having straightened his stance, Nadir turned to Élise, who remained seated with hands folded primly in her lap. "Madame Durand," uttered respectfully with a proper bow, "it is a pleasure to meet you again."

"Monsieur Kahn," came the cool response, and then, as if determining that she should make some attempt at polite conversation, she added, "I hope that your journey was productive."

"Oh, my journeys are never productive, madam. Indeed, I am quite happily unproductive at this late stage of my life. I merely drift about with the wind whenever I am feeling light of feet, and then the feeling goes and I blow safely back into my little flat."

The lady threatened a smile. "I do not believe for one moment that such a capricious element would control your destiny, sir."

"We all need a bit of whimsy now and then, madam."

A rise of her brows and tilt of her head silently conceded the point. With that minimal acknowledgment accomplished, Élise dropped her gaze to Angelique, bestowing a rare unpretentious smile upon the child. "Would you like a bit of whimsy, ange? Perhaps another story from the Messieurs Grimm? Or shall it be Madame de Beaumont's tale tonight?"

"Oh, yes, Auntie 'Lise," the child vibrated with excitement, "that one, please?"

"Of course, petite. Come now," Élise arose gracefully, one hand extended to her niece, "let us fetch the other children to share in the enchantment." She nodded politely to Nadir, "If you will excuse us, Monsieur Kahn. I am certain that my brother, and I daresay, my husband, will be eager to hear of your latest exploits."

"Good evening, Madame. M'amselle," he added with a wink to Angelique.

The child curtsied properly, then beseeched her mother, "Are you not coming too, mamma?"

"I'll be along in a few moments, chéri." Upon their departure from the room, Christine released an audible sigh, and then cringed imperceptibly at her faux pas, glancing back to Nadir with an endearingly contrite smile. "I _am_ pleased that Angelique so enjoys her aunt's visits, but…"

"Say no more, my dear. Your endless patience has long convinced me that you must truly be the angel of whom Erik sings praise."

"Hardly an angel," with a roll of her eyes, "and you have proven quite a devil, Nadir," she accused with a sly grin, "sneaking off to Paris for your clandestine assignations."

He cleared his throat uncomfortably, "I have no idea of what you speak, madam."

Christine moved smoothly to his side and linked her arm with his. "In this one instance, it would seem that the post has arrived ahead of you." She began to lead him out of the parlor whilst she spoke. "Imagine my surprise when I opened the latest missive from Erik's aunt in which an entire page was devoted to the gentleman and lady whom she had discovered renting Box Five during her attendance of _Manon_." Her grin had, by then, transformed into a smirk, and Nadir had the sudden realization that Christine had been living too long under Erik's influence. She released his arm as they stopped before the terrace doors. "I trust that Madame Giry enjoyed the performance."

"She did," he answered simply.

Placing her hands upon the doorknobs, she gave him a knowing look. "I trust, as well, that I shall hear every detail before you leave this house, else I may just have to relay the unabridged version of that letter to my husband."

His brows lifted in surprise. "You mean that you have not already done so."

"And deprive myself of what promises to be a most diverting conversation? I think not." With a little wink, she threw the doors open wide and, with an inclination of her head to the wreath of smoke drifting up over the rail, directed him toward the two gentlemen in the garden below. "Now go and play nicely with the other boys."

She was still smiling as she made her dramatic exit, and Nadir chuckled softly in admiration. Who could have guessed that the Little Daaé would have grown into such an impressive woman? Then he shook his head at the obvious answer…Erik, of course. They had certainly formed a formidable partnership. He did not look forward to the inevitable inquisition into his private affairs…he winced, thinking perhaps that was not the best word to choose. Ah well, he would at least enjoy a decent cigar or two before the unavoidable confession.

Making his way to the edge of the stone landing, he glanced down to see Erik in the midst of some animated discourse with his brother-in-law, Lucien Durand. Upon their first meeting, Nadir had been undeniably surprised that Élise had married such a _normal_ fellow. He possessed no title, no vast fortune, and no connections beyond those of his profession. He cut a decent enough figure, and he was certainly a clever man, but surely that could not have been enough to tempt a spoiled woman down from her pedestal. The unaccountable union was yet another mysterious aspect to Erik's sister that had fascinated the Persian. Needless to say, he had been pleased to make the acquaintance.

Leaning over the banister, he called down to the gentlemen, "What subject does Erik bore you with this evening, Monsieur Durand?"

Erik's head snapped up, and his eyes sharpened on his old friend. "Daroga," he growled, though there was no threat in the rumble, "I do not recall receiving word that you had returned to Venice."

"Because I did not send word," he grinned. "I most humbly beg your pardon for the interruption."

"When have you ever been humble?"

Nadir laughed, turning to Lucien. "I can be most humble indeed if you will indulge me with one of those fine Romeos."

Lucien, who had been puffing leisurely on his cigar, looked at the Persian in surprise. "How did you know the brand, Monsieur Kahn?"

"A detective never reveals his tricks."

"I thought that was said of magicians," Lucien replied with an amiable smile as he reached into his coat pocket.

"Oh, them too," Nadir waved dismissively, bounding down the three steps of the terrace. "Merely two sides of the same coin. Would you not agree, Erik?"

"I would not," but the comment was blatantly ignored by his companions. Nadir had accepted one of the Cuban cigars from Lucien's silver case and was avidly inhaling its scent before lighting it.

"Such a terrible vice," he murmured, "but then, I have long abandoned a virtuous existence." Abandoned along with Persia and most of his faith.

"Bah, a fine cigar is as much a virtue to a gentleman as a fine silk gown to a lady," vowed Lucien, and with a grin, he added, "or so I have finally convinced my wife. An equitable exchange, you see? She no longer asks me to give up smoking, and I no longer ask her to give up shopping."

All three of gentlemen shared the laugh. Still grinning, Nadir ran a thoughtful hand across his goatee. "But is that your victory, or hers? It seems to me that you are left holding the bill in both hands."

"A draw, then, but rest assured," Lucien took another blissful puff, "you'll not hear me complain," and the contentment of his situation was evident in both his manner and tone.

"The words of well trained husband," Nadir mock whispered to Erik.

"A _wise _husband, Monsieur Kahn."

"A contradiction in terms!" Nadir inhaled his now lit cigar appreciatively, "but I will concede that your wives are exceptional women. A man can be forgiven his foolishness when he has such a cause."

"Love makes fools of the wise," Erik muttered ruefully, staring unseeingly off into the darkness. Nadir could almost see the ghosts of so long ago spinning circles of flame before his eyes.

"And wise men of fools,¹" Lucien added.

The mood had turned somewhat serious, and Nadir was conscious of having been the cause. "Come now, gentlemen, what use does a hopeless, old bachelor have for such sweet nothings?"

"I dare not imagine," Erik intoned dryly.

The Persian grunted even as he made a silent mental note to satisfy Christine's curiosity about Antoinette in private so as not to offend Erik's delicate sensibilities, and then, as was his wont, he changed the topic to one of his own pleasure. "Well, if we have not completely exhausted the subject of amore, I have the most amazing little, golden bejeweled egg² to tell you about."

Lucien's mouth fell open in astonishment. "An…egg?"

"Pay him no mind, Lucien. He took leave of his senses more than twenty years ago," but the jeer was negated by the almost brotherly affection betrayed in Erik's soft smile.

Nadir's black eyes narrowed dangerously. "I am as sharp as I have ever been, my friend, and you would do well to remember that."

"Well, if that is the case, I've nothing at all to fear. I always could best you, old man."

"Old man, indeed! You are not so young yourself these days."

"Excuse me, gentlemen," interrupted Lucien, "but I would like to hear about this egg."

Nadir leaned casually back against the wall, a wide grin on his face as he drew another breath of tobacco. He loved nothing more than an intrigued audience, and he pointedly ignored Erik's put upon sigh. "Let me tell you, Czar Alexander himself commissioned the strange little thing to be created for his czarina, and all in the name of love…"

* * *

¹ "Love works in miracles every day: such as weakening the strong, and stretching the weak; making fools of the wise, and wise men of fools; favouring the passions, destroying reason, and in a word, turning everything topsy-turvy." _Marguerite De Valois_

² The first Fabergé egg was made between 1884 and 1885 by Carl Fabergé as an Easter gift from Czar Alexander III to his wife, Maria.

* * *

**A/N: **The sly, old Persian returns. This one _really _didn't go where I planned. It was intended to be a sort of gentlemen's club conversation between the three men, but then the ladies got all huffy and demanded to be included. Solution…make Nadir the central character. 

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	13. Your Indulgence For A Few Moments

**A/N: **Oh look, it's at the beginning this time. This is just a short, little coda to the last vignette, _A Most Amiable Nature_. My thanks to Nyasia A. Maire for the inspiration to actually write the scene.

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**Your Indulgence For A Few Moments **

"We are alone at last, mon ami." Eyes dancing with mischief, Christine Daaé Villon smiled coyly at the gentleman leaning nonchalantly against the wall of the terrace. "Of course, now that I know you to be quite the Casanova, perhaps I should fear for my virtue. "

Nadir rolled his eyes, "Most amusing, madam. Rest assured that had I a mind to ravish you, then I would require far more time than it would take your husband to tuck the little ones into their beds."

"Oh, I don't know. Erik tends to linger over the task, especially when he is begged for a lullaby."

"Even so, I have developed an undeniable fondness for breathing and am unwilling to part with the activity despite the enticing incentive." He took an appreciative sip of his coffee, allowing the flavor to fill his nostrils and roll over his pallet as he covertly observed Christine. Her loose curls fluttered in the warm breeze, and her lips were tilted into an impish grin. If he did not know her to be a woman recently bidding adieu to her third decade of life, he could easily have mistaken her for the young girl who had once believed in fairytales and angels fallen to earth.

"You know, of course, that he is equally as protective of Antoinette."

A bark of laughter escaped around his last swallow of the Russian brew. "Protective I can endure. Jealous and psychotic are other matters entirely."

Christine crossed her arms defensively, a deep frown marring her lovely features. "Really, Nadir, he is not psychotic!" Then she cringed slightly and sighed, "well…anymore. Now stop attempting to distract my attention from the subject at hand."

He set his cup aside and clasped his hands behind his back, rocking back slightly on his heels and affecting an expression of oblivion. "And what subject would that be?"

Her posture did not change, but her brows drew into a convincing, if unbefitting, scowl. "Box Five," fired in swift cadence. "_Manon_.¹"

"Ah, yes," he drawled, a fond, faraway look settling upon his face, "a superb opera. Monsieur Massanet has outdone himself, and Marie Heilbron was exceptional in the title role. She pales in comparison to my present company, of course," he swept his hand across the air in her general direction, "but a very fine performance indeed."

"And what of Antoinette?"

"She thought the ballet in Act II to be a bit disorganized, but I did not notice any missteps."

"Don't be evasive," she chastised him while attempting to disguise her amusement.

Nadir released a heavy breath. "Christine, my dear, did your husband never tell you that a true gentlemen does not speak of such intimate matters?"

"Intimate?" Her interest peaked, she smiled slyly. "You admit, then, that there is an attachment."

"I admit nothing."

"Oh, you are a frustrating man," she threw out her hands in exclamation of the point, turning away in surprising agitation. "You keep more secrets than Erik ever has, and Antoinette Giry is nearly as bad. She sends me letter after letter of trivialities, all the while omitting everything of consequence."

The reason for Christine's peculiar mood became suddenly clear to Nadir. Time and distance had eroded the connection to her former life in Paris that she had undoubtedly believed indestructible. Old friends and family had drifted father away with each passing year. He felt a swell of compassion, but that was hardly enough to curb his tongue. "It is not as though we have snuck off and eloped."

She flinched, wrapping her arms around herself in a protective gesture. "As Erik and I did, you mean to say? That is quite uncalled for, Nadir."

"Well, you can hardly cast _that_ particular stone," he reminded her gently. "In any event, Antoinette and I have a mutually acceptable arrangement which pleases both and places no demands upon either," a wry smile twisted his lips, "and I daresay that she would run mad were I underfoot for any length of time."

Christine made a wan attempt to return his smile. "Your presence could hardly be worse than a dormitory full of young girls." She turned her face away and gazed unseeingly into the darkness, "yet she must be happy on her own, else she would certainly have moved nearer to Meg."

"Hmm, well, yes," he muttered, "I suspect that there is something more involved in that decision, but she may soon surrender to her daughter's requests."

"I imagine that she would wish to be close to her grandson." Her eyes were clouded as she spoke, as if focused on some private vision of the family from which she had been excluded. "It has been a troublesome subject between us. Meg married so quickly, and Madame Giry rarely speaks of the matter at all."

"And I know that you have long despaired having lost touch with little Meg."

"She sends an occasional letter, but they are stiff and formal. My invitations to the villa have gone unaccepted, and she has never extended a welcome to her Baron's château in Pau. I am wise enough to infer the circumstances of her timely marriage that have been left unspoken by all parties, but as you pointed out," her voice rang with a note of defensiveness, "I have no moral high ground from which to pass judgment. I cannot understand why Meg has placed such a distance between us."

Nadir did not bother to temper the bitterness that he felt on behalf of _his_ ladies. "Madame le Baronne de Castelot-Barbezac has distanced herself from a great many people who had wished to keep her close, and I see that gleam in your eyes, little one, but I can tell you nothing more. Whatever disagreements have kept mother from daughter are none of my concern, nor yours for that matter."

"But…"

"No. Let them follow their own path, just as you have followed yours. I suspect that the divergent roads will eventually come together once again."

Christine remained silent for a spell, only staring out across the gardens. Finally, she drew a deep breath and released it into the night air, expelling the tension that had kept her posture rigid. Her gaze sought his, and this time, her attempt at a smile was far more successful. "And what of you, Nadir? Will your path take you back to Paris?"

"Oh, undoubtedly," he chuckled, "and through several other distant places along the way."

"Wherever the wind may take you?"

"You know me well, little one."

The impish twinkle returned to her eyes, and she had the audacity to wink at him. "Not as well as some, it would seem."

"I must keep some mystery between us, my dear, else you would grow bored with me. I've trouble enough stealing your attention away from that husband of yours."

Closing the short distance between them, Christine placed a hand upon his shoulder and leaned in to press a chaste kiss to his whiskered cheek. "You are a charming old scoundrel, Nadir," she whispered before turning to open the terrace doors.

He bristled, "Old again? I'll have you know that I am in the prime of my life."

"We shall see what Madame Giry has to say on that subject," she called back as she disappeared into the villa.

"You would not dare!" The damnable woman did not answer, "Christine?" He peered into the darkened corridor, but she had effectively vanished from his view. "You are a wicked woman, madam! You and Erik deserve one another!"

Ethereal laughter floated back between the shadows, followed by a very smug "I know."

* * *

¹_Manon_ by Jules Massanet was first performed at the Opéra-Comique in Paris on January 19, 1884. Marie Heilbron was the first to play the title role. 


	14. Promising Talent

**Promising Talent**

Nicolo Dellano had been born into the theater. Quite literally, for his mother, Theresa, had gone into labor during the third act of _Rigoletto_¹, sending his father, Leonardo, into a fit of pique at having been interrupted before the climax of a triumphant premiere. Such a dramatic appearance should have made it clear to all parties that little Nico would be destined to one day claim the illustrious Owners' Box at the grand _Teatro la Fenice_. Unfortunately, this was not the case.

The timely debut, although seemingly early, was in fact, decidedly late. Leonardo, in the age old tradition of so many proud fathers, fully expected to pass his appreciation for the arts, and all that it entailed, to his first born son, Bernardo. This assumption was ultimately proven incorrect when the boy loudly declared his intent to study the law while keeping astutely quiet in his pious distaste for the theater. His father (eventually) took this disappointment in stride, and placed his hopes upon his second born, Matteo, who had already begun to exhibit a restless nature. The cure that he imbibed for such a condition was an impromptu enlistment in the Italian militia, whether by calculated avoidance, or reckless abandon, his father would never be certain. The end result remained the same; Matteo embarked on his longed for adventures in the guise of patriotism, and only one son remained to whom Leonardo might entrust his beloved Opera House.

Nico had not failed to take note of the position he held in his father's esteem, but understanding more than agreeing, he did not allow the plight of a third born son to taint his love for _La Fenice_. Indeed, he loved it far too well at times, along with a number of the charming ladies who graced its stage. Such a predilection had gained his father's much sought after attention, but only in the least flattering of ways. Leonardo promptly chased the young would be Casanova away from his chorus girls and sent him off to be schooled in England – an action that proved beneficial to everyone. When Nico finally returned to Venice, he came home to a prosperous theater, a courteous diva, a talented cast, and one charming mezzo soprano whom he would eventually call his own.

Now he was seeking another – along with a soprano, and perhaps a tenor, for his current one was growing a bit long in the tooth and round about the middle. It never hurt hire a fresh face or two, although the one standing before him at present was quite familiar.

"A promising talent, signor. Very promising."

The remark broke into the reverent silence that had descended upon the stage of _La Fenice_. Echoes of the aria that had so enraptured the sparse audience could still be heard reverberating through the auditorium, and Nico glanced to the man seated next to him. In the dozen or so years that he had been acquainted with Erik Villon, he had never ceased to feel a sense of awe at the sheer brilliance the man possessed. Was it any wonder that his daughter should be equally blessed?

One could argue that Angelique Villon had been predestined for stardom from the moment of her birth. She was, after all, the daughter of Christine Daaé, Bella Diva de _la Fenice_. This fact in and of itself would seem enough to gift her with the potential for greatness, but it was undoubtedly her father's influence that had achieved true musical perfection. If only Erik had been open to accepting other students, then no opera house in Europe – in all the world – could ever hope to match the grandeur of Venice.

Erik's normal manner of arrogance had grown even more pronounced, clearly pleased with his daughter's performance. "She will begin in the chorus," he decreed.

Nico chuckled softly, quite used to the man's _suggestions_ by now, and more indulgent of them than his father had been. "Only the chorus? Would you not see her placed in more prominent roles? Emiliana's understudy, perhaps?"

"In due time. She is only sixteen; she must learn the theater." Erik's expression softened as he gazed at his daughter, who was radiantly receiving accolades from the other young hopefuls. "It will do her no service to achieve success too quickly."

"Was Christine not about the same age when she made her debut?"

Erik's fiery gaze snapped to Nico. "Christine grew up in the Opera. She was ready. Angelique is not!"

Nico nodded slowly, understanding that it was Erik who was not ready. Even now, there were young men gazing upon his daughter with unveiled appreciation. She possessed a rare beauty; passionate resolve wrapped in quiet loveliness, with a talent that would undoubtedly transform her into an object of desire to both gentlemen and rogues. He could hardly blame her father for being protective; for wishing to delay the inevitable. In truth, Nico was of a mind to agree that Angelique, while possessing an unparalleled voice, would greatly benefit from a year or so to hone her acting skills.

"She will likely take offense, you know," Nico warned his friend with good humor. "I think she presumes that Christine Daaé's daughter would never be consigned to the chorus."

It was Erik's turn to chuckle. "Oh, I expect that she will throw a tantrum worthy of any diva. Then she will pout quite prettily, and remind you that you have known her since she was a child, and that you promised her that one day she would sing at _La Fenice _just like her mamma. When you will not submit, she will attempt to convince me to have a word with you, but in the end, she will accept the inevitable."

"You mean that you will have Christine convince her."

He grinned. "Of course."

xXx

If the heavy footfalls on the stairs had not alerted Christine that something was amiss, then the slamming of her eldest child's bedroom door certainly would have. She stepped into the foyer just in time to see her husband, angry and scowling, one hand on the rail and one foot upon the bottom step, shouting into the empty space where their daughter must have recently been.

"Angelique Christine Villon! You will come back down here this instant!"

Her heart lurched. Only one thing could have caused her daughter such upset on this day, and she could not believe it could be so. "Erik? What's happened? Surely Nico did not refuse to accept her at the Opera!"

Angelique's talent was unquestionable. She had been so excited for this day to come, so eager to finally be deemed ready to audition by her father, and so certain that she would finally begin her career. Christine had wanted nothing more than to be there in support of her daughter, but Angelique had wished to succeed on her own talent, and she had been afraid that her famous mother's presence would become too much a distraction, even though La Daaé had been gone from the stage for eight years now. So Christine had kissed her cheek and sent her off with Erik. She should have gone with them! How dare Nico reject _her_ daughter?

"He did not refuse her," Erik quietly muttered, expelling a weary breath and pushing a hand through his hair. "She was offered a position in the chorus."

"The chorus?"

A small, defiant smile curled the corner of Erik's mouth. "I do not believe that I have ever heard those two words uttered with such disdain. Except, perhaps, by our daughter this very afternoon."

Christine felt her cheeks grow hot with embarrassment, and attempted to sound more considerate. "The chorus is perfectly respectable. I began in the ballet, after all." Although she was unashamedly grateful that Angelique had never had to suffer through years in the corps. "I only thought…"

"You thought, as Angelique did, that her talent would earn her a featured role straightaway."

"Did _you _not, as well? I am surprised that Nico dared to oppose your wishes." Erik glanced away guiltily, and Christine experienced a sickening sense of déjà vu, only somewhat inverted. "Oh, Erik, no! Tell me you didn't interfere."

He refused to meet her eyes, instead staring at a spot on the wall and shrugging indifferently. "I may have voiced an opinion that the chorus would be a wise starting point for a Angelique's career."

Anger heated her blood, and she curled her fingers into her palms until the nails bit the flesh to keep from hitting him. "How could you? You know how badly she wants to succeed, to please us - to please _you_! Her beloved father. Her _teacher_!" She threw out her hands in exasperation. "You once tore apart an entire Opera House to see me at center stage, and now you would deny your own daughter the same. When she wants it far more than I ever did!"

"She isn't ready, Christine," he pleaded for her to understand. "You'd had years immersed in that environment to prepare. When you finally made your debut, you had already danced in countless productions, blended your voice into the chorus and learned what it meant to create a truly brilliant performance. Angelique has not yet had that experience. She must learn patience."

"She is _your_ daughter, Erik! When have you _ever_ known her to be patient?"

Erik brought a hand to her cheek, attempting, as he so often did, to appease her with his gentle touch. "She is your daughter, as well, mon ange. It will not be long at all before she is stealing the limelight, and then every great house in Europe will come to beg for her favor," he grimaced, "and her dressing room will be crawling with overeager young suitors."

Christine's face softened in sudden comprehension. "You cannot prevent that from happening, Erik."

"I can delay it."

"Not by half, my love," she smiled gently, "but I believe that you do have the best of intentions, even if your execution leaves something to be desired."

He bristled, "I hardly needed to pressure Nico into agreement. Angelique could not have hoped for more than second understudy to Emiliana, and you know well enough that even that _esteemed _position would hardly be more than a glorified chorus girl."

"That is not the point, Erik. Our daughter is disappointed, and you've had a hand in it." Christine stepped back and sternly pointed up the stairs, "now go and make it right."

Erik sighed heavily, but he had learned not to oppose his wife in in matters regarding their family.

xXx

She refused to open the door.

Erik leaned his forehead against the oak, wishing, not for the first time, that his stubborn daughter was perhaps a bit less like him in certain regards. Her temper, for one. "Bel ange, please?" He steadfastly ignored the three sets of eyes that watched him beg. "This is not a conversation that I wish to have from the hallway, but I am not leaving until I have had my say."

"You said more than enough this afternoon," came the muffled reply.

"Angelique," he growled, "you are being melodramatic! Signor Dellano wants you at his Opera."

"In the chorus! He might as well have made me a scenery shifter. Or better yet, a _piece _of the scenery!"

He dropped his head back against the wood with a solid rap. He didn't recall Christine having ever been this difficult in her youth. "You could never be scenery, ma petite," he assured her. She was far too beautiful; too much like her mother. "One day, you will be the greatest soprano that the world has ever known, but to be deserving of such honor requires that you learn humility."

The door opened so quickly that Erik stumbled, lurching forward and nearly toppling his irate daughter back across the threshold. She glared at him. "Is this another of your lessons? Humility? Or _humiliation_? You _know_ that my voice is better than any other that we heard today! You could have spoken to Signor Dellano on my behalf. You _would_ have if you truly believed I was worthy," she broke off on a strangled sob, whirling away to retreat into her room.

Erik's chest tightened painfully. "Oh, Angelique," he rasped, moving behind her and laying his hands upon her trembling shoulders, "you are more than merely worthy." He gently turned her to face him, and tipped her downcast face up to meet his gaze. "I have never been more proud of you than I was this afternoon. You took the stage with grace and confidence, and you sang so beautifully – more beautifully than all of the angels in heaven, my child. Soon enough, you _will_ have _everything _that you dream," he brushed the curls away from her cheek and wiped a stray tear away with his thumb, "but you are still so very young."

"Mamma was only sixteen when you decided that _she_ was ready."

"And my decision was not the wisest." _Selfish, lustful and nearly disastrous_, he silently admitted with a rueful smile. "Your mother would have benefited from waiting another year or two, but I was impatient for all the world to hear her exquisite voice. I would hope that I have learned something from my past impulsiveness."

Angelique regarded him keenly, her glittering eyes studying his features for any sign that he might be less than earnest. When she spoke, her voice quivered. "Then I – I haven't disappointed you?"

Erik was quick to gather her into his arms. "Oh, my precious angel, you could never disappoint me." He placed a kiss to her temple, stroking her hair in attempt to soothe her as he had when she'd been small, and he felt her relax against him. "You are the joy of my heart," he whispered, and meant it. He loved all of his children equally, if differently, but Angelique would always be special for being his first.

"I love you, papa."

Even after sixteen years, his heart never failed to flutter madly whenever he heard those words fall so easily from the lips of his children. "And I love you, bel ange." With one final squeeze, he reluctantly freed his daughter from his embrace.

She gazed up at him with sudden embarrassment. "Do you think that Signor Dellano will forgive me for being so ungrateful?"

Erik chuckled softly. "Of course he shall. He is quite used to dealing with temperamental divas by now, and he will not so easily relinquish such a promising talent."

"I am not temperamental," she huffed.

"You are, my dear, but you come by it honestly."

Angelique grinned, for it was certainly not the first time she'd been told the same. Placing her palms against his shoulders, she bounced onto her toes and kissed her father's unmasked cheek. "Thank you for always being my Angel of Music, papa."

"Yes, well," he cleared his throat, nodding back toward the hallway where he was certain Christine was hovering, "let us go and tell your mother how thoroughly you dazzled everyone today."

With a blinding smile, she seized his hand and dragged him from the room. In the hallway, Erik watched his wife make every attempt to appear as though she had only just climbed up from the foyer. A private look passed between them, and he knew that she was pleased. Angelique flew into her mother's arms, already beginning to relay every detail of her performance as they descended the staircase.

A duet of muted giggles sounded from behind him, and a glance over his shoulder revealed Régine and Gustave, neither having made any effort to hide that they'd been eavesdropping. He smiled, reaching back a hand, and they both came running, one tucking under each of his arms. To his right, Régine, his shy little angel smiling adoringly up at him, the very image of her mother at that age. To his left, Gustave, serious and intense at times, but grinning widely now with green blue eyes shining from the face that Erik would surely have had if not for the hand of Fate.

"Come along, my little spies. You sister demands a rapt audience, and you've both proven quite proficient at listening."

More giggles, and two voices overlapping "yes, papa."

Hand in hand, they trailed behind their two beloved divas; a devoted little entourage.

A happy family.

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¹ _Rigoletto _by Giuseppe Verdi was first performed at Teatro la Fenice in Venice on March 11, 1851.

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**A/N:** The usual thanks to those who continue to read and review. 


	15. The Gala

**The Gala**

_December 31, 1893  
__Paris, France  
__Bal Masque  
_

It is a peculiar sort of madness to be here now, surrounded by the pageantry and spectacle of my formative years. I am a woman grown, a wife, a mother, and yet I can close my eyes and become that seventeen year old girl once again, firmly bound in silk and lace, and decorating the arm of an overprotective gentleman. Tonight, at least, the bindings are of my own choosing, as is the gentleman.

Oh, that isn't entirely right, is it? I _did _choose the gentleman on that long ago evening, but with my mind, not my heart—not my _soul. _The gown, however, had been completely out of my control. Raoul always did have extravagant taste.

Tonight, I have shed all vestiges of the vulnerable ingénue. There are no pink frills and flowers upon me. I am instead draped in deep, vivid cobalt from décolletage to underskirt, a willing participant in this folly. More than one set of appreciative eyes lingers on my person, much to my husband's chagrin. His possessive grip on my arm is all that keeps me from succumbing to the surreal nature of this moment.

A quick glance to my right assures me that I have not, in fact, crossed some mysterious threshold into the past. Erik stands proudly at my side, dressed elegantly in formal evening attire; the single red rose tacked onto his lapel is the only homage to his past as the Phantom. His profile hides the mask from my view, but I know it to be there, black tonight for the masquerade and molded into a neutral expression. He will not remove it at midnight.

The years have been kind to him, and the faint lines on his face add character in place of age. Apart from the silver threaded into his hair, he has barely changed from the ghostly image that first appeared behind my mirror more than twenty years ago. I am beginning to think that I will soon appear older than he does! He turns his beloved face toward me, smiling softly and squeezing my hand before he begins our emersion into the gala.

Moving farther into the room, we are engulfed by a myriad of bodies, some clinging to civilization, others having joyfully surrendered to the bacchanal. I inhale the fragrance of a dozen clashing perfumes with each breath, bringing an unwelcome heaviness to my lungs and lightness to my head—and the room is already spinning with a kaleidoscope of colors. Thankfully, the Red Death is not among them.

Erik did threaten several times to adopt that old persona for the event, mostly, I suspect, to work Élise into a state of panic. Nothing must mar her perceived triumph at finally persuading the Comte de Chagny into a tentative Parisian debut. I wonder if she chose the Bal Masque out of some morbid sense of irony, one that she surely must share with my husband, or if she is simply oblivious to the potential for disaster. She and Lucien are certainly in their element, he with his witty banter and she with her catty compliments and false smiles.

Somewhere in this sea of masks are Raoul and his vicomtesse, Céleste, no doubt playing at happiness. They are very good at the game, but it makes me ill to watch them pretend. I wonder if he is costumed in his old regimentals, recalling his glory days, or if she is locked in a prison of organdy trim, wishing me a million miles away from her husband.

A well timed word creates a ripple in the conversations around us, and I watch the wave of curiosity flow through the room. It's really nothing new. La Daaé once evoked the same response amidst the artistic sect, and the innovative Erik Villon still causes a stir amongst the Italian elite. Yet tonight has my stomach dancing with butterflies.

It's this building, I know—this place where everything began.

Erik and I have been back here, of course, but blanketed by shadows; our faces turned away from the crowds. Safe in our obscurity. There is nothing safe about tonight. We are center stage and beneath a thousand brilliant lights. The De Chagny name may carry a great deal of weight in Paris, but it certainly cannot erase the whisper of a ghost story that has never completely faded.

The introduction to the first waltz erupts from the orchestra, and the assembly dutifully parts to allow eager couples passage. I am mildly surprised when Erik begins to pull me in the direction of the dance floor, but the playful grin on his face compels me to follow. He gathers me into his embrace and we are swept away by the pulse of the music. I feel the smile bloom on my own lips as I gaze up into his sparkling ocean eyes, and for a few blissful moments, only we two exist.

xXx

"Raoul, have you been listening to anything that I've said?"

The Vicomte de Chagny startled out of his reverie, dragging his gaze away from Christine, happily twirling through the room in his brother's arms, and focusing on his own wife. Her imperturbable façade had slipped, and he suppressed a guilty sigh. She truly was a beautiful woman, ginger hair piled atop her head and slender body wrapped in a gown of gold and green. The goddess Demeter, she claimed, complete with a mask overlaid in gilded leaves. He knew that his attention should be consumed solely by her, but the night had clouded his mind with memory.

"Forgive me, Céleste. I was admiring the grandeur."

Her green eyes flickered over the waltzing couples, landing unerringly upon the object of her husband's admiration. She wilted, shoulders drooping and sparkle dimming. "Yes, I can see how that would distract you," and then, forcing an over bright smile to her face, she tucked her arm into his. "Shall we join the spectacle?"

He smiled in return, grateful for her endless patience with him, and led her into the dance. As they moved around the floor, he recalled days long past when he carried his youthful swagger with pride, imagining that anything he desired would be his with a single command. Proud. Arrogant. _Foolish. _

He could still see Christine in his arms; the sparkle of the diamond that she had refused to wear upon her finger dimmed by the shadows in her eyes. Passing the grand staircase, he glanced up, conjuring the deathly presence of Erik clad in blood red with bone white mask menacing in the half light. Swinging out past a pillar, his eyes caught sight of Madame Giry, in her signature black, conversing with Nadir Kahn, who was draped in Persian robes and headdress. In his mind's eye, Raoul easily substituted a vision of Meg Giry dressed in white and standing next to her mother, exactly as she had been so many years ago. A sudden misstep had him jostling Céleste, and he snapped himself back into the present, grinning ruefully. "It would seem that I am not as swift of foot as I once was."

"I forgive you," she said quite soberly.

He nodded. It was enough.

xXx

"I am rather pleased with the way this evening is progressing."

Lucien Durand looked to his wife in surprise, chuckling at the comment. "The Bal has barely even begun, mon amour. I would not be so hasty in declaring it a success."

Élise raised one perfect brow, leveling her husband a look clearly meant to convey her unquestionable authority in such matters. "Erik is _here_, is he not? And even Raoul." Her head turned in the direction that she had last seen her younger brother. "The battle is mine."

"Heaven help us poor soldiers if we do not march to your beat."

She smiled slyly, raising her champagne flute in toast and murmuring "Être au garde-à-vous, mon capitaine¹" before taking a delicate sip.

"You _do_ make quite a lovely general, my dear, but I do not think that you can claim victory in your campaign just yet. The Comte may have sworn a truce, but he shows no sign of imminent surrender." He idly swirled the liquid around in his own glass as he scanned the crowd for the gentleman in question, who was oblivious to all else but the beauty in his arms.

"He will," she vowed.

"I do admire your resilience, Élise," he drawled, eyes twinkling with merriment. "By the by, how _did_ you manage to bring Raoul here tonight? I thought that he was hell bent on disappearing to that vineyard of his in Gascony.²"

"He was," she frowned. "I can only guess that Céleste must have convinced him to postpone the trip. He spends far too much time seeing to some business or another with those godforsaken Tannat grapes." Raoul had purchased the small winery just before his marriage, and it had quickly become his favorite investment. "I cannot imagine what draws him there," she finished absently.

"Can you not?"

Her eyes snapped immediately to her husband, feeling an unladylike temptation to smack the knowing smile from his face. He had long contended that the most honest and virtuous of all her brothers was engaged in some adulterous affair that drew him so often from Paris, but she refused to acknowledge the possibility—at least, not aloud. She knew that Raoul had almost certainly enjoyed the pleasures of keeping a mistress or two in the years before taking Céleste as his wife, but he had always been so very discreet in his actions. Élise had _never_ heard his name whispered in any of the gossip thickened salons after the debacle with Christine had faded from interest. Raoul had learned to keep his private affairs quite private...

An adamant "No!" answered her own silent reflection. Of them all, Raoul was surely the least likely to engage in such scandalous behavior.

"Well, in any case, he must find it something of a bittersweet vintage," Lucien concluded gently. He lovingly brushed the back of his fingers across the delicate line of Élise's jaw, tilting her face up just enough to breathe a feather light kiss against her cheek. "Neither you nor I have had a taste for wine since we sampled champagne."

Her lips curved, and she remembered why she had married him.

xXx

The predictable fluttering of speculation and supposition that defined such galas eventually trickled into one nattering corner, filled with a triumvirate of refined ladies atwitter. One tall, blond, and quite stunning gentlewoman was the former Monique LeVeque, now the Marquise de Beauvais. She was of an age undisclosed, but not many years removed from the Comtesse de Chagny, and of a mind to recall only those delicious morsels of past gossip that had then been of interest to a young lady of privilege inclined to marry a man of title. "A war injury, I think," she uttered as her eyes helplessly followed the subject of conversation with feminine interest, "in the service of France."

"I thought that he was Italian." This from Colette Dessaix, neé Arceneau, who was neither tall nor blond, though quite happy in her petite stature—thank you very much. She _was_ bourgeoisie to a fault, but a lady could be forgiven for such a grave failing when her husband was an influential member of the Parliament.

"Oh no, he is most definitely a Frenchman," purred with echoes with _vive la France._

"I heard that he was injured in a fire."

"You are both wrong," spoke the voice of maturity in the person of Geneviève de Dampierre, Duchess du Loiret. In more than thirty years of moving in such redundant circles, she had come to know far more than she would ever confess, and had forgotten far less than others might hope. "It was some sort of horrendous childhood accident. The family does not speak of it."

"How bad can it really be when the rest of him is so delicious?"

"Really, Monique, how very inappropriate!"

"Oh, Colette, do not act so demur. I have seen you admiring the cut of his tailcoat, and no doubt imagining what lay beneath."

"Both of you hush, before the object of your interest overhears you. Or worse, his wife."

"Can you imagine?" sighed Colette. "The world renowned La Daaé," whom she secretly admired, "married to the mysterious Comte de Chagny." Her dreamy expression betrayed an overly romantic nature.

Here, the Marquise called upon her selective memory. "Why is that so surprising? She nearly married the _Vicomte_ de Chagny, after all. We all thought that she was a dim little thing, but apparently she was quite cunning, to have traded up." And really, that was something to be admired in Monique's estimation.

"Yes, and she is quite cunning enough to have learned discretion. A trait which you all seem to be lacking."

Three horrified ladies jumped nearly out of their skin, turning with wide eyes and pale complexions to face Élise Durand, standing firm upon the arm of her husband and wearing a chilling glare of censure. None dared mention that the lady's own opinions had once been reflected in the conversation that she had just overheard. It hardly mattered.

"My apologies, Madame Durand, Monsieur." The Duchess, at least, was quick to recover her manners. "We certainly meant no disrespect to your brother or his wife," a stern glance to her companions, "Is that not so, Monique?"

The lady had gone scarlet and mute. Colette had taken on a similar hue, though she was of a less taciturn nature. "Oh, n-no, Madame. I think the C-Comtesse is quite l-lovely. And the C-Comte," her blush deepened, "n-not lovely, of course, but handsome…er…d-distinguished…yes, quite distinguished."

"And quite protective of his wife," Élise warned.

"As any _gentleman_ would be," the Duchess nodded in acknowledgment, and an unspoken understanding passed between those two ladies.

Yes, Geneviève de Dampierre knew far more than she would ever confess, and would certainly never forget how enticing the Comte de Chagny had been dressed in red.

xXx

"Why so silent, mon ange?"

The silken timbre of Erik's voice caresses me, sending a shiver of awareness through my blood. I doubt that particular reaction will _ever_ fade; God knows that it hasn't in all the years since I first heard him speak.

"Perhaps I am only lost to the magic of being in your arms."

His embrace tightens indiscernibly, his body encroaching further into the tenuous space between us that propriety demands, and his slow smile is filled with unspoken promises. I love that smile as dearly as I love being the woman to inspire it.

"A condition that I will gladly encourage when we are alone. However, at present I would much rather know what troubles you."

I am tempted to offer him empty assurances, but he knows my every mood by now. I am not deaf to the half stifled whispers that have trailed our footsteps from the moment that we arrived at the Masque. "Are you not the least bit uncomfortable with so many eyes upon us?"

"I am quite familiar with being stared at by now, as should you be."

"That isn't what I mean, Erik. I can almost feel them conjuring up the Opera Ghost."

His grin is positively mirthful, and he smothers his laughter. "They've no need to conjure him, my dear," he leans closer; a breathy murmur beside my ear, "he is already standing in their midst."

"_That_ is my point exactly. Are you really so confidant that nothing of that life can touch you now?"

Tell me _yes_. Make me believe it.

"One thing from that life _is_ touching me now," his thumb is moving in a maddening circle over the pulse point at my wrist, "and I am very glad of it. As for the rest," he shrugs nonchalantly, "I care very little if the whole of Paris comes to know that Christine Daaé has ended up with her Phantom after all."

Exasperating man! "But, Erik," my words are silenced by his lips, the sweet warmth of his mouth so wonderfully intoxicating. I can never drink my fill, nor escape my addiction, and I certainly cannot care that everyone will see. I am suddenly quite calm, willingly under his spell. There are no ghosts here tonight—only Erik.

My angel, my maestro, my love.

In this madness, I have found my reason.

* * *

_¹__Ê__tre au garde-à-vous, mon capitaine _Stand at attention, my captain. 

² Gascony encompasses an area of southwest France that includes the Madiran vineyards, located northeast of Pau and famous for their red Tannat grapes. Madiran wines are bitter when young, but resolve with age into a full bodied flavor.

* * *

**Author's Note:** I think that this will probably be the last look into the life of the Villons. At least, until after all of the holiday madness is over. When I reached the end of this vignette, I found that it had written itself into a neat little conclusion—although I've left a few things unwritten if ever I feel the need to revisit our happy family. 

In case this does prove to be the last _Moment_, I want to thank you all for joining me in these little glimpses into what Erik and Christine's life together might have been.

I am tinkering with another story idea that may or may not be original, but I likely won't be posting anything until sometime in 2008.

Happy holidays to all of you.


End file.
